Zorro's trial
by Inuvik
Summary: WDZ. Don Carlos Galindo is a man of law and Zorro a man of justice. But who is the newcomer? As Don Diego says, these are much troubled times...
1. Chapter 1

_AN: This story takes place at the beginning of the Magistrado's arch while our brave sergeant is acting-commandante. Enjoy :-) Long live Zorro!  
_

* * *

_Zorro's trial_

_Chapter 1_

* * *

The road between San Luis Rey de Francia and San Juan Capistrano was renowned for its majestic sights on the ocean.

As far as the eye could see, the long strips of white sand were caressed by breaker surfs, above which seagulls let themselves get carried away by the salted breeze, gliding with grace in an immense sky that lost itself in the sea until the horizon would bathe in crimson. Then, dusk slowly swallowed the landscape and cut out the massive shadows of cliffs. Crawling up the rocky walls, the howling wind would carry with each crashing wave the torment of the numerous souls that had perished on the treacherous shore. Like sharp stakes, earth projected its entrails, stating clearly that the water world was not welcomed on dry land.

Though dry land was no more hospitable by night for the humans, and the road connecting the Spanish missions lost all idyllic character to become a deadly trap. The clump of trees where birds played and sang a few hours earlier now hid dangerous highwaymen. If the Curse of Capistrano had never been seen so far south, his name haunted each shadow, while the local bandidos claimed that this part of the country was their domain only and that el Zorro had better not trespass.

Indeed, by night, it was another music that was heard. Ordinary people knew it. And if the man who was lying on the ground had cared to ask it, he would have been warned not to venture out, no matter how armed he was. A pistol or a sword were of little use to defend oneself for the attacks were usually swift, fierce, and always treacherous. Honor ceased to exist along with the sun.

Tonight was no exception.

The only warning that was given was the whistling sound of a blade suddenly slicing the air. The man had unconsciously straightened upon hearing it and raised his pistol a second before feeling a searing pain in his throat. He was dead before hitting the ground.

The scene that ensued was of a sad banality.

The attacker crouched next to his victim and methodically searched his clothes. One after the other, he found a watch, a purse with quite a few pesos by the weight of it, a knife, and identity papers. All these he took though it did not halt his search.

He continued to probe the man's jacket and trousers' pockets, trying to feel if there were a false fold, a lining somewhere.

The attacker's eyes suddenly narrowed and a smirk distorted his lips.

A few seconds later, he slowly stood up with a smile of victory. After throwing the boot over the hundred-foot high cliff, he slid the letter in his inner jacket pocket and, without any ceremony, rolled the body to the sea. The corpse made a dull sound as it bounced on the uneven wall and crashed down on rocks that waves swallowed with fury.

Satisfied, the attacker moved back toward his horse. The pueblo of Los Angeles was only a two-day ride in front of him, less if he was fast.

* * *

The same evening, two firm knocks sounded on the magistrado's office door. The fifty-year-old man raised his eyes from the accounting book on his desk and frowned at the door, waiting for a third knock. It came, exactly five seconds later.

_It's about time!_ he thought upon hearing the signal. Quickly, he reduced the flame of the oil lamp sitting on a corner of his desk, and blew out the candelabra on the wall to his right. Half shadows immediately swallowed his small room.

The next moment, he opened the door and watched two men covered by a dusty scab of mud entering his clean, and richly furnished office.

"What kept you?" he asked, keeping them with a sign of his hand from penetrating further.

Though he had whispered, irritation clearly filtered in his voice while his lips, lifting in a corner as he spoke, expressed all the disdain he held for the two messengers.

"The road was cut off at several places by the last downpour. We were forced to make a large detour," the tallest one said. Shoulders held straight with a muscular neck, the man was a rogue that one would not like to cross at a corner.

The magistrado's eyes did not linger on him more than necessary. Like in the fields, all work needed its beasts of burden. They were an evil he was forced to endure for the greater cause. "Give me the letter."

"Wait a moment, Señor. First, prove your identity."

The magistrado raised his head and shot him a sharp glance that had more than often caused an accused to pathetically retract into his bench.

"Is this necessary?" he asked, icy.

Far from appearing impressed, the man stepped forward and nodded slowly with an expression that said, "Do I have to take out an incentive?"

Though no sound had escaped the man's lips, the magistrado felt his blood boiling at the underlying threat. That a man of lesser birth, almost a savage, dared to question his identity was an insult as stinging as a glove thrown to his face.

However, he clenched his jaw not to say anything that would only make the clandestine meeting last longer than it should.

Summoning a smirk on his face, he straightened his shoulders and moved back toward his desk, saying, "One is never cautious enough."

Apparently calm and relaxed, he slid a hand in his jacket pocket to retrieve the key that opened the hidden drawer. A few seconds later, he came back, seemingly empty-handed toward the two messengers.

"Why two men?" he asked, suspicious.

"You said it, one is never cautious enough. We had to ride relentlessly to arrive in time and this road is a real cut-throat at night. Now, Señor, if you care to oblige."

The magistrado nodded and furtively revealed, hidden in his jacket sleeve, a white eagle feather. "Is it good enough for you?"

"Sí, Señor, here is the message," the man said, holding out a letter.

The magistrado snatched it from the man's dirty hands and checked that the wax seal was intact. Satisfied, he moved back to his desk, grabbed a purse and threw it. The coins clashed when the man caught it mid-air. Not bothering to advise them to share, he then headed toward the window without a word.

With a hand, he spread the heavy curtains and cast a quick look out. After a few seconds when he detected no moving shadows, he nodded toward the door. "Go to the tavern for the night but leave this pueblo at first light tomorrow."

Relieved to see the two men leaving his office, the magistrado closed the door behind them and locked it. Eager to acquaint himself with the Eagle's instructions, he moved back to his desk, seized a letter opener the shape of a small, golden sword, slid its sharp edge near the seal and sliced it in a swift move.


	2. Chapter 2

_Zorro's trial_

_Chapter 2_

* * *

_**Two days later**_

The pueblo of Los Angeles crackled with a joyous effervescence in this warm mid morning of June.

Like every first Wednesday of the month, stalls covered by multicolored shades invaded the plaza and overflowed the surrounding streets, giving the white adobe walls of the small buildings an air of feria. It smelled of spices, tamales, and pastries to the point one could taste them in their mouth; and coupled with the renewed presence of the sun, this opened both the people's appetites and loosened their tongues. Clients and merchants negotiated with more enthusiasm than usual, also it was true, in order to cover the flurry of cackling poultry held in tiny cages.

In front of a stall that pleasantly emanated the peppered smell of sausages, smoked meat and ham, Pepito scratched his head and winced.

"What does he want?" the merchant growled, both fists on his hips.

The young boy shrugged his shoulders. "I do not know, Señor," he replied, as puzzled as the man.

"Say again, Bernardo," he asked, encouraging with his hands the deaf-mute manservant to mime again what he wanted to buy.

But when Bernardo mimed again singing with an imaginary guitar in his hands, Pepito sighed and wished that Don Diego had given his servant a list, like Maria had done with him. It would have been much easier. Next to him, the deaf-mute stopped _singing, _and looking annoyed, picked a string. A sudden horrified expression distorted his face.

Frowning, the young boy then saw him handing the invisible guitar to the merchant.

"Oh! I got it! He wants to buy new strings!" Pepito exclaimed, eyes wide open.

"What?! Go away, both of you!" the butcher yelled, becoming as red as the Serrano ham in front of him, "Enough messing around with me!"

"Sorry, Señor!" the boy said.

Biting his lips to keep a laugh silent, he quickly seized Bernardo's sleeve to drag him away. But as they pivoted, they found themselves face to face with Don Carlos Galindo.

"Any problem here?"

The cold voice and severe glance caused all laughter to vanish from Pepito's mischievous eyes. "No, Señor Magistrado. Just a misunderstanding," he said while Bernardo stretched a hand toward the don with a smile, only to be rewarded by a disdainful look.

"Then I suggest you move away," Galindo said, standing straight with his arms crossed behind his back.

"Sí, Señor," Pepito replied, nodding quickly as he added, "Come, Bernardo, the stringed-instrument maker is on the other side of the plaza."

The two compañeros calmly cleared themselves a path in the packed crowd, moving around barrels of wine, bags of rice, and wicker baskets of all sizes full of fruits and vegetables, until they reached the large open space in front of the tavern. Though it was not as crowded as the streets they just left, it was not easy to move there as several enclosures had been built to keep larger animals confined.

"Hola, Don Diego!" Pepito called, waving his arm at the young don who was leaning his elbows on the wooden guardrail of a pen that kept in check a large black bull.

"Hola, mi amigos," Don Diego replied, smiling and saluting them with a nod, adding as they stopped next to him, "Have you found my strings?"

"Next thing on the list, Don Diego," the boy said, joyous, before climbing on the lower beam of the fence to get a better view at the muscular beast. "Are you going to buy it?" he asked, fascinated by the bull that threw earth under his belly with its forward legs and bellowed.

"We are thinking of it," the young don replied, nodding in the direction of Don Alejandro who was talking with the merchant on the opposite side of the pen. "Negotiations are tight."

Pepito's eyes widened out of thrill. "Whoa! I've never seen one so big."

"If we manage to acquire it, you'll ask Benito to show you how to tame it."

"Really?" the boy asked, his eyes growing even wider as he stared at the bull that was now nervously coming and going around its pen.

His enthusiasm snatched a laugh to the young don.

"When it will be calmer, and if you promise to listen to Benito carefully and do what he says, I do not see any problem."

"Gracias, Don Diego," the boy exclaimed, jumping off the guardrail with energy. He had never been allowed near a bull before and he could not wait to be back at the rancho. Knowing Don Alejandro, he was certainly not going to let such a beautiful animal escape his grasp.

"De nada, my young amigo," Don Diego said as Pepito already pivoted to finish the courses. "Oh! By the way, try to keep Bernardo out of trouble. I should have warned you that he has a way to attract misunderstandings."

The boy chuckled. "Do not worry. He is safe with me."

"Bueno, bueno."

"Diego?"

Upon hearing his father's call, the young don smiled, "I've got to go, hasta luego, mi amigos."

As Don Diego fought his way between the pens to join his father, Pepito tugged on Bernardo's arm to make him resume his way.

Half an hour later, the boy entered the general store to buy the last items on his list while Bernardo headed toward the alley where they had left the mule-driven car to put all their purchases in it. Shortly after, Pepito walked out of the store to join Bernardo when a sudden crash sounded, quickly followed by cries. Before he could grasp what was going on, strong hands suddenly seized his shoulders and pulled him away from the path. With dread, he felt more than saw the huge black bull rushing by him.

On the ground with his two parcels still tightly clenched under his arms as if they were two safe buoys, the ten-year-old boy stared as the beast spread panic and fear among the market's clients and disappeared at the corner of the street.

"Are you all right, muchacho?" someone asked.

Startled, the boy averted his eyes from the mayhem to glance at the person who was helping him to stand up. "Sí, Señor," he said to a man who was staring at him with concern. Being the only person with him at the place, he understood that he was the one who had pulled him out of harm's way. "Gracias to you," he added, still shaken.

Pepito quickly looked his savior up and down. In his mid-thirties, dark hair, skin slightly tanned, as tall as Benito, though a bit thinner maybe, he was also dressed like a vaquero. The boy frowned. He had never seen him in the pueblo before.

"De nada, young fellow," the man replied with a smile just as Don Diego strode across the street toward him.

"Are you all right, Pepito?" the young don asked, worried.

"I am fine, Don Diego, gracias to this señor," the boy replied, though his heart was still beating a mile a minute.

The young don raised his eyes and extended a hand. "I am Don Diego de la Vega. No words can express how relieved I am that you were here for Pepito, Señor?"

"Rodrigo Díaz," the man replied, accepting the hand with a slight nod.

"How did the bull free itself from its pen, Don Diego?" Pepito asked, troubled.

"I don't know, but I have to see it captured because it is ours now."

"I will help you, Señor de la Vega," Díaz said.

Don Diego nodded. "All help is welcomed," he said, while Pepito caught sight of the vaqueros gathering in the plaza, including Benito.

The magistrado's curt and accusatory voice sounded afar. "Who is the owner of this bull?"

With a wince, the young don craned his neck to his right and sighed. "Señor Díaz, here is my head vaquero, Benito, follow him. He knows the hills better than anyone else in the pueblo."

While Díaz quickly headed back toward his bay horse and jumped on his back, Benito briefly stopped his horse near them.

"We are going to try to drive him into the enclosure next to the orchard, Patrón."

Don Diego nodded. "Muy bien, Benito. Good luck!"

The two men exchanged a tense glance, and a few seconds later, all the vaqueros rode away.

"Are you not going with them, Don Diego?" Pepito asked.

The young don winced. "Er... no. I still have some business to attend, and the magistrado seems to be searching for a culprit. I have to talk to him. If you are finished, go back to the hacienda with Bernardo and ask Maria for refreshments. After all these emotions, you must be weary."

"I'm not weary," the boy replied just as his stomach gurgled.

Don Diego smiled. "But hungry, definitively you are. Go now, Pepito."

"Sí, Don Diego," the boy nodded, slightly disappointed without truly knowing why.

He watched the young don joining his father and Don Carlos Galindo in front of the tavern when Bernardo patted his shoulder and attracted him toward the mule-driven car. Maybe on their way back, they would catch a glimpse at the vaqueros dealing with the bull? At least, he hoped the powerful beast would not charge anyone and force them to kill it.


	3. Chapter 3

_Zorro's trial_

_Chapter 3_

* * *

Later that evening, the tavern's landlord lighted one after one the candles hung on the walls to dispel the falling darkness while Maria, the young waitress, walked with grace around the tables to serve liquor or coffee to the clients. The day had been long and filled with activity and emotions. The quiet atmosphere reflected the tiredness of the pueblo's citizens.

Next to the half opened window, Don Diego sat alone, a cigar in one hand, a book in the other. From time to time, he would put the cigar down in the ashtray on the square table in front of him to take a small sip from his glass of Xérès. Discreetly, he would sweep the room with his hazel eyes, and dive back into his story, unless someone passing by would worry about his late presence, for dusk made the roads unsafe for an unarmed citizen, especially one with his wealth.

Nobody had forgotten what had happened to him five months ago at the hands of a group of bandidos that raided the two most fortunate ranchos of the pueblo, stealing cattle, and in the case of the de la Vega's, kidnapped the rich scion and tried to ransom him. By the grace of God, and also to the vigilance of Zorro, everything had turned out fine. Nonetheless, this misadventure should have served as a lesson to the young don. Certainly his home was as quiet a place to read and, above all, safer now that the night swallowed el Camino Real in worrying shadows.

But at such statement, the young don would answer that the bull had a harmful influence on his father's mood, and that all things considered, the roads were safer than his patio for the time being.

Upon hearing such answer, his interlocutor would utter a surprised "Oh!" and promptly inquire if the beast had been captured to hide a slight discomfort. Unfortunately, the embarrassment would only increase with Don Diego's nonchalant answer:

"I do not know."

"How come you do not know, Don Diego?" Sergeant Garcia asked.

The young don shrugged. "How could I know, Sergeant? I am not with the vaqueros. Just before he left to join them, my father said that the bull had been seen somewhere in the hills toward San Gabriele. As I have not spoken to him since, I do not know whether the beast was captured or not. Why don't you sit down, Sergeant? You seem exhausted."

After waving toward the facing chair, Don Diego craned his neck to spot Maria. As he met her eyes, he raised his glass and nodded toward the soldier with a knowing smile.

"Gracias, Don Diego," Garcia said, accepting the offer with his usual joy.

The chair's legs creaked on the hard floor of the tavern as the sergeant sat down, causing a few heads to turn toward them. The strange friendship that united those two men was for most of the people who witnessed it, counter to nature. Indeed, everything in life opposed the two protagonists, from rank of birth to corpulence, intelligence, manners in general - especially at table - and last but not least, hygiene. Unlike Garcia, Don Diego was well aware of the wry smiles around them as the sergeant complained:

"Market day is always exhausting for us soldiers. With all the people roaming around in the pueblo and the strangers... there are always misunderstandings, complaints, and thieves to run after."

"Oh. Did you catch one?" the young don asked absently, annoyed by a sense of uneasiness that hovered in the tavern, elusive, a bit like the rings of smoke coming off his cigar. He blew out the puff in his mouth and a slight stream of air pushed it toward the window where it disappeared. Nothing tangible, but yet definitively present.

Once again, his gaze settled on the scene taking place on the left side of the fireplace. Four men, two lancers and two vaqueros working for Don Alfredo, played cards, and for the last ten minutes, the tone of the voices as well as the shoulders of the players seemed tenser and tenser.

"One what, Don Diego?"

"Er... a thief, Sergeant," he said, turning his attention back to his compañero.

The imposing soldier frowned as if he was racking his brains. "Er... no. Not today. The bull was the only disturbance."

"Ah. Very well," he replied, his eyes attracted once more toward the card game when one of the players slapped his hand flat on the table. The atmosphere was definitively heating up.

"You seem worried, Don Diego. Is something wrong?"

The young don nodded toward the source of his annoyance. "Tell me, Sergeant, why did you authorize your men to play money with the vaqueros?"

Garcia craned his neck and cast a look at the game party. "The magistrado"The magistrado said it would be good for the population to regain faith in the army after two years under the brutal command of Monastario."

"So you say this is Señor Galindo's idea?"

"No, it is mine, Don Diego. I asked him how he wanted to achieve this miracle, and he replied that soldiers and citizens had to do things together, have a little fun to relax the atmosphere. I then proposed to remove some of Monastario's strict rules like the one to engage in friendly games with other citizens. He said that the army would lose all its natural respect as one does not fear a friend and chaos would rule the pueblo if games were allowed."

Diego sighed of dismay and shook his head. That was typical of Monastario, to link respect and fear together. However, he knew how unfriendly a game of poker could turn out.

"And the magistrado did approved this?" he asked, incredulous.

"Señor Galindo thinks that if the relations between the army and the citizens improve, then they would gain back faith in justice. The King's justice and not Zorro's."

The way Garcia said this last statement, as if the skies had just fallen on his shoulders, made the young don frown a brief second before he realized what was weighing him down.

"Ah! And if the citizens have faith in you and him to reinstall justice, then Zorro will have no reason to draw his sword again and..."

The sergeant shook his head sadly. "I will never earn those two-thousands pesos."

_Zeus' lightning striking on Garcia,_ Diego imagined, not able to keep himself from smirking. Though it was brief. That the magistrado wanted to peacefully get rid of the fox did not bother him. He would even welcome positively the opportunity. But that to achieve this goal, Garcia let his lancers play cards with whoever they wanted to...

"I do not know, Sergeant. If you want my opinion-"

"Of course, Don Diego," Garcia cut, eyes round with envy to hear his advice.

"Despite my personal aversion for the authoritarian commandant Monastario was, this one rule he had installed, for the soldiers to not participate in any gambling or card game with the population, was maybe one well-"

A fist hitting a table with force interrupted the young don in his sentence.

In the tavern, a heavy silence fell down and all heads turned toward the fireplace.

"You cheated!" A lancer accused, pointing a threatening finger on the man sitting diagonally across the oblong table.

"I did not!" the accused vaquero replied, his face purpling with ire as he stood up too.

Don Diego mentally cursed. So much for establishing good relations. What had Garcia thought?

"Figueroa, what is this all about?" the sergeant asked, standing up and lumbering between tables and chairs toward his two lancers.

"They cheated, Sergeant. I saw them swiftly exchanging a card below the table."

Chairs creaked on the ground again as the vaqueros accused of cheating moved one step forward. "We did not do that! That is a lie!"

Diego frowned, recognizing the man who had just talked. Gustavo Valdéz was his name. Benito and he occasionally spent some time drinking and playing cards together. Never once had he heard his head-vaquero complaining about the man's honesty. Everybody was tired, and no doubt too much alcohol ran through each of these men's blood; this was probably only a misunderstanding.

"Ensign Pérez? Did you see the movement too?" Garcia inquired.

"Sí, Sergeant! I saw them both putting a hand under the table. Figueroa is telling the truth. He had the upper hand, he should have won this game."

"It is a lie, Sergeant!" Valdéz exclaimed, "Your men just can't bear the idea of losing their pay so they are accu-"

"Señores?"

The cold voice of Don Carlos Galindo coming from the door step silenced everybody.

Diego felt an icy shudder running down his spine. This was not going to be as simple to settle as he had hoped.

"Señor Galindo," he said, turning on his heels to greet the magistrado who acknowledged his presence with a brief nod before moving toward the men. Taking advantage of the open door, several clients chose this moment to pay and walk out, under the annoyed gaze of the landlord who knew that the evening was coming to an end.

"Sergeant, I want you to take all the money on the table. It is to be held until I have clarified what happened tonight."

"Señor Magistrado," Diego intervened, catching sight of the glances of near panic the two vaqueros sent to the few pesos, "This is a simple misunderstanding. Maybe if all the players took back their bet and stopped the game there, it would suffice to settle the matter."

Galindo turned his icy eyes toward the young don. "Last time I checked, you did not have the office to maintain order and justice in this pueblo, Don Diego. And let me give you some friendly advice, so that there will be no misunderstanding between us in the future. Next time you send your mozo to do some errands, make sure he does not cause any trouble again, unless you wish to pick him up at the carcél."

Diego's muscles tensed at the curt tone and the underlying threat. It took him a great deal of self control to keep his fists relaxed and bow his head in submission.

A spark of victory flashed in his interlocutor's raptor eyes. "I want to see you all individually tomorrow morning at first," this latter said, addressing the four players.

Lips forming a thin line, Diego watched the magistrado walking out of the tavern.

"I am sorry, muchachos," Garcia said, sweeping all the pesos in his hat. "I would have preferred it ended otherwise, but orders are orders."

At those words, Valdéz knocked the chair next to him into the wall and dashed for the door, his dark eyes on the ground and his fellow compañero on his heels. The young don hastily retreated one step at his passage to avoid being hit while Garcia ordered his lancers back to the cuartel.

After leaving a few pesos on his table for Maria, Diego stepped out on the plaza, and headed toward his palomino.

"Are you certain you do not want to wait for me, Don Diego? I would feel better if you did not ride alone," the sergeant asked as the young don untied his steed and mounted on his back.

Behind them, the landlord wished them buenas noches and closed the tavern's door for the night.

"No, gracias, Sergeant. With the moon lighting my path so bright, what can happen?"

A slight grunt of disagreement answered him. "I would feel better if you had a sword at your side, Don Diego. Or better, a pistol. One is never too cautious."

Diego chuckled. "It is very nice from you to worry for my safety, Sergeant, but I would definitely feel better unarmed. Weapons attract weapons as light attracts moths. Buenas noches," he said with a wave, kicking his palomino's side to make him move forward.

As he reached the corner of the street, the young don craned his neck and watched with certain relief as Garcia's bulky silhouette disappeared through the gates. The feeling did not last long. When he rode out of the pueblo a few minutes later and prompted his horse into a light gallop, the uneasiness that occupied him shifted to a dull anguish. The day ended on a discordant note, and that troubled him deeply.


	4. Chapter 4

_Zorro's trial_

_Chapter 4_

* * *

The next morning, Don Diego leant on the wooden guardrail across his bedroom door, absently staring at the outlines of rocks slowly becoming sharper. On the horizon, the rising sun colored thin clouds in warm tones, chasing the gray shadows of the night away while the light chirping of birds sounded a discreet melody in the background.

It was so peaceful.

Despite what he led his father to think, the old don did transmit his love for his land to his son.

The young don peeked at his father's door, half-wishing to see him step out to share this quiet moment with him, half-wishing to remain alone with his thoughts. It was unusual for him to wake up so early, even if to wake up one had to fall asleep first. And that was something he had failed to achieve all night.

Diego sighed, wondering once more why he had not been able to shut down his mind all night. Maybe it was by lack of fatigue?

Since the murder of the new commandante by Estevan Rojas three weeks ago, nothing out of the ordinary had happened in the pueblo to require Zorro's services, wedging him into the popinjay's boring life.

Against all odds, Garcia, committed to his new responsibilities, maintained the citizens and his soldiers on track. Sometimes permissive, sometimes almost as authoritarian as Monastario – at least, he certainly sounded like the former capitán. So many _babosos_ flew out of his mouth during an hour that he half-expected to see Garcia growing an inspired thin mustache and goatee. However, the sergeant, by nature, was an overly tolerant and fair man. For how long this management would work, it was difficult to say, but for now, Garcia's reign was a breath of fresh air blown into an asphyxiated pueblo.

The clock had rung the second hour when he finally decided that the newly arrived capitán's murder was a sordid affair of vendetta. The man must have made some enemies in Spain, enemies that had followed him to Los Angeles. Young, Estevan Rojas already displayed an ambiguous personality and he always mistrusted him in their plays. He was only half-surprised that he had turned out badly.

And finally, the uneasiness that the previous evening's events in the tavern had caused were maybe nothing more than a way for his subconscious to cling on Zorro's mask. Like a sailor caught in a flat sea would anxiously stare at the skies, he began to desire for nature to unleash a storm. A storm that would require Zorro's sword to calm down.

Feeling guilty to wish such a thing, he had let his mind wander like a stick of wood in a stream. From the poker game to the bull; from the bull to an eagle and a white feather; to Rojas' abject behavior to Maria's rescue; and an overwhelmed Maria fainting in his arms to Elena's kind smile. In the darkness of Monastario's filthy cell, her eyes gleamed like diamonds as he gave her news of her father and Benito.

He had felt sad to learn that Don Nacho had forbidden the young man to see his daughter again, and thunderstruck to witness a few days later, through the sala's spy hole, Elena's father asking Alejandro for an arranged wedding between their two families. But that was not all. To contradict the old saying lightning never strikes the same place twice, his father's reply had caused him to seek support on the stairwell central pillar.

For a reason he could not fathom, the old don thought that a señorita held his soul captive in Spain, hence the transformation into a weakling poet. His son mourned the loss of his love.

Though absurd at first glance, Diego used the opportunity to his advantage and brought some credit to this theory. What he had not foreseen was that his mind would resurrect the beautiful flamenco dancer who had cast a spell on his senses his first year in Madrid.

Then, the young don had spent the rest of his night thinking of the glamorous creature. Her long, curly black hair that she sometimes maintained in a bun, revealing her delicate neck and shoulders. In the soft gleam of candles, he had begun to grasp, so much wished to touch, the reason why Dios had created light. In the half-shadows the flames danced, an accomplice to her perfect curves swaying mere feet from his enslaved eyes.

On his balcony, the young don took a deep breath to smother again the powerful desire that had forced him out of bed to seek the freshness of the early hours on his burning skin.

Thinking of what he could not have would lead him nowhere.

Like a devilish temptation, the red-dressed flamenco dancer appeared again, engraved on his eyelids, delightful.

Diego took a deep breath and straightened, troubled to feel mere memories triggering so strong emotions in him. Maybe he should take his palomino for an early ride and go for a dip in the river? But when he moved back into his bedroom to dress, he lay down on his bed, arms crossed under his head, dreamy.

He did not want to chase her from his mind.

A hand shaking his shoulder woke him up a few hours later. Still feeling deeply the remnants of his night, he raised on his elbows and sat up on the edge of the mattress. On his left, Bernardo took out a white shirt and his brown caballero suit from the wardrobe, obviously unaware of his confused state. Before he would notice, Diego stood up and walked to the bowl in white porcelain on the dressing table to splash water on his face.

When he walked out of his bedroom shortly after, the striding cries of cicadas replaced the melodious songs of birds. High in the sky, the summer sun scorched the rocky hills with all the power of its furnace. As he walked across the patio and headed toward the sala's door, Diego heard cheerful voices and a burst of laughter coming out of the opened window of the study.

His father, Benito and another man were talking about the bull.

So they had caught it finally, and obviously had fun doing so. A chuckle lightened his hazel eyes before his mood darkened as he grasped the door handle and entered in the sala. He wanted nothing more than to share the moment with them, but that was not possible, was it? In all probability, his intervention would cool down the joyous conversation when his father would say how he wished he was there to see them and immediately avert his eyes to hide a disappointment that would escape no one in the room.

With a deep sigh, the young don silently headed toward the massive sideboard concealing the access to the secret passageway, grasping an apple on his path when the study's door creaked open.

"Ah! Diego! My son, come. I want you to meet our new vaquero. Rodrigo will take Fabio's place the time he will be away."

The young don froze. Quickly, he closed the sideboard doors and pivoted on his heels to face his father, and gasped.

"What happened, Father?" Diego asked, frowning to see a dark bruise on the old don's face. Next to him, Benito stood along with the man who had saved Pepito the day before.

Don Alejandro grunted, "Isabella got scared when the bull charged, but tell no one."

Diego could not help but chuckle. His father?! The proudest caballero Spanish California had ever sired, falling from his horse?

"Rodrigo lassoed the bull just in time to avoid the worst," the old don added, a shudder of fear tensing his shoulders and vaporizing all mischievous thoughts from Diego's mind.

"Then, we are doubly in your debt, Señor," the young don said, serious as he bowed his head toward their new vaquero. "No words can express the extent of my gratefulness this morning."

With a slightly shy expression on his face, Rodrigo Diáz quickly nodded. "De nada, patrón."

A large smile on his lips, Don Alejandro patted the man's shoulder. "You should have seen this, Diego, that bull led us into the hills and we feared for a moment that he would fall off the cliff, and he would have if Rodrigo had not reached the escarpment first and interposed himself just in time. Out of control, he then ran along the cliff for a mile before I managed with Benito to force him back inland. I have not felt such a thrill in a long time!"

While he listened to his father, Diego caught the sparkle of this thrilling adventure in Benito's and Rodrigo's eyes.

"Ah! How I wish you were there..."

"Well, if you want my opinion, that bull looked quite dangerous from the beginning to me," Diego replied, "Are you going to keep him after he charged you? This beast cannot be trusted anymore."

"What do you mean, keep him? Of course I am going to keep him and I will tame him myself or my name is not Alejandro de la Vega!"

On that, the old don straightened his head as if an insult to his honor had been committed and walked out of the sala. Silent, the two vaqueros exchanged a brief glance, shifting uneasily for a few seconds. Then, they saluted him and disappeared at their turn, leaving Diego alone in the sala.

The young don stayed frozen for a moment before letting out a deep sigh. He should have been the one saving his father. Not a stranger. He should have been at his father's side. What kind of son had he become?

Feeling his mind drifting again into twists and turns, Diego straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath.

_Dios... this was going to be a long day..._ he thought when a tap on his back startled him.

Diego nervously pivoted his heels and met Bernardo's cheerful eyes.

His friend's presence soothed him.

"Come, Bernardo," he said with a faint smile. "I need to keep my mind busy this morning, and incidentally, your legs moving."

With a nod of the head, the young don invited his now perplexed-looking servant to follow him in the freshness of the hacienda's entrails. A fencing training session would do them both a world of good.


	5. Chapter 5

_Zorro's trial _

_Chapter 5_

* * *

In the evening, Don Diego resumed his position in the tavern, his eyes becoming darker with the progressive decay of the sun.

"_Zorro will not always be here to save you, my son!"_

In the beginning of the afternoon, his father had emitted a sharp concern about his coming home late the previous night and the young don was now growing nervous. Each time the tavern's door opened, he anxiously expected Benito to appear to offer him _company_ for his ride back to the hacienda, like he had done – ordered to by the old don more exactly – following the month of his kidnapping.

A bodyguard or a curfew? For a few days, he had been at a loss to determine if he should laugh or cry of his situation. Now, he felt downright irritated and very close to outraged.

If only his father knew to whom he proposed such a deal! Maybe the time had finally come to redeem himself in front of the old don, by telling him who he truly was. But how to make such a huge confession? All the lies, the humiliating pretense, the bitterness... Each time he imagined the moment, it ended in an awkward conversation.

"_By the way, Father, you ought to know that I am Zorro."_

"_Nonsense, Diego. Would you pass me the salt, por favor? I saw Zorro, stood a foot from his face. He has eyes as black as his horse, not hazel like yours, and his voice would make thunder and lightning cower. His shoulders are straight, his arms strong. You are no closer to him than a kid to a coy-"_

"_I get the picture, Father."_

Diego winced as a burst of despair made him sigh deeply. No. If he wanted to confess, no words should be uttered, at least none at first. The only way would be to lead the old don into the hacienda's secret passage and present him Tornado. His stallion would speak for him.

Don Alejandro's face turning livid and widening eyes appeared in Diego's mind. Would the shock to discover the truth be too strong? The old don swayed, seeking support on the granitic wall...

The last thing he wanted was to kill his father!

Diego shook his head and heaved a sigh.

No matter how he would broach the confession, it would not be an easy moment. Would his father understand why he had not trusted him with his intentions? Why he had used him? Searched - even asked for - his public disillusion? Hurt him? And what if Zorro was needed again? Then, his father would become an accomplice. All the sufferings they had already endured would have been for nothing.

No, he could not reveal his secret. It was too soon.

So, as usual when wearing a caballero's suit, the young man had lowered his gaze on the ground and promised the old don that he would come home early, like a good son. Of course, he had silenced the last words for they would not have come out with the proper tone. He could not blame his father for being worried about his safety and it was not necessary to add disrespect to disappointment.

Like a surf battering rocks showing on a craggy shore, bitterness and frustration washed over him. Nor it was to add insubordination by arriving later than expected. Darkness spread fast once the sun settled.

Scowling, the young don put a peso on the table and stood up.

As soon as he opened the door, a thick flash of heat assaulted him, digging his despair deeper. To make things even more painful, the night promised to be as suffocating as a blacksmith's charcoal stove.

Resigned to a sleepless night because of lack of fresh air, Don Diego untied his palomino, and as he did so, his eyes, adjusting to the darkness, scanned the plaza by force of habit. Everything seemed in order. The lancer standing watch was as usual sleeping upright, and was, as far as he could tell, the only visible presence in the shadows.

Depressed, the young don mounted on his steed, and, with an uncharacteristic dearth of energy, rode away.

However, he had not yet turned around the corner that a brief light on the building across the street caught his eye.

Behind the window, the magistrado's white hair and pale face briefly appeared like a ghostly figure. Intrigued, Diego pulled on the bridles to halt his horse to check a second time and witnessed Galindo's office door opening and letting out the somber silhouette of a man.

The young don frowned. Who could visit the magistrado at such undue hour? And why did Galindo need to check that the street was clear before allowing his guest to leave? This was no ordinary behavior.

Growing restless, Diego stared at the mysterious visitor disappearing in the small alley next to the building before riding out on a horse a short instant later. A sparkle made his eyes glow in the dark. Needing no incentive, the fox lurking under the young don's skin decided to follow.

A moment later, Diego exited the pueblo on el Camino Real, carefully riding fifty feet behind the rider. Above the countryside, clotted in thick shadows, a thin layer of clouds veiled a milk-white moon. As dusk shortened his field of vision, the young don progressively prompted his steed into a light gallop to match and gain territory on Galindo's visitor for he wanted at least to know where he was heading.

Sweat soon pearled on his forehead and down his spine, soaking his clothes that glued to his skin. But Diego did not bother with the sticky sensation. He embraced it as proof that he was still alive, and though warm, the wind blowing on his face reinvigorated his senses, cheering him up. Nobody would ride so fast under such a crushing heat without intent, a plan of some sort, a mission to accomplish, and darkness seldom sired peace. Zorro was still needed!

But at the corner of a curve on top of a hill, el Camino Real suddenly reappeared, lifeless. Pulling his steed to a halt, Diego frowned as in front of him stretched nothing but shadows of rocks and bushes.

Heart knocking in his chest, he engaged his horse into the slight descent when an alarm suddenly blared in his mind. Out of instinct, he turned his head to his right and saw a huge shadow falling on him. Before he could react, a rough impact sent him biting the ground hard.


	6. Chapter 6

_Zorro's trial_

_Chapter 6_

* * *

_A bull hit me and I'm stuck under my horse..._

These were Diego's first thoughts as he lay on the ground, groggy. At least until the cold and sharp contact of a blade pressing on his throat shook him out of his torpor, and made him realize that the weight on his stomach and arms were caused by a man sitting astride on him.

"Do not move, Señor," the latter said with a tone as razor-edged as the knife in his hand, "Why are you following me?"

The voice was somehow familiar. Diego's eyes narrowed as he tried to decipher the man's face. But thick clouds clotted the sky, masking both the pale crescent of the moon and the bright trail of stars.

Beads of sweat pearled on the young don's hairline.

"I... what?" he replied, temporizing while he assessed his predicament. The man he was riding after had spotted him and, taking advantage of the curve in the road, made his move to attack.

Under his body, Diego could feel the rough rocks and prickling grass jabbing his flesh. He knew first hand that steps were difficult to muffle on this kind of ground and yet the young don had not detected the man's presence. Like a demoniac spirit in a native's legend, he had sprung out of nowhere, sired from the darkness itself.

Diego's heart pounded faster in his chest as a primal fear clenched all his muscles to fight. But he instinctively knew that the hand holding the blade would be quicker than his fists or kicks. He had better to stay still and let the popinjay try his chance to get him out of this predicament.

"My money is in my right jacket pocket, take everything but please, do not hurt me!"

The man sitting astride on his abdomen suddenly straightened.

"De la Vega?"

"Sí?" Diego replied. His voice still shook with a feigned fear but his eyes gleamed with an all too real thrill when he felt the blade's pressure on his throat weakening.

The fox lying underneath Diego's skin was about to jump to his aggressor's face when the latter suddenly apologized profusely and stood up, leaving the young don lying on the dust, disoriented by the fast reversal of the situation.

"But what are you doing here, patrón?"

Thunderstruck, the young don raised on his elbows.

"Benito?" Diego asked, frowning. Though somehow he knew that the man in front of him was not his faithful head-vaquero.

"No. It's Rodrigo. Rodrigo Díaz. Are you all right? I am so sorry, but I really thought you were a bandido chasing after me."

Diego frowned as he was helped to stand up. If he now understood why the voice had felt familiar, questions struck him with the fury of a tropical storm.

What was the man doing at the magistrado's office so late? Where was he riding so fast in the dark? And why had he ambushed him, thinking that he was a bandido? Usually, when one thought having a felon on one's tail, the normal reaction was to try to run away, not to turn around in order to jump on him! This was pure madness...

That thought made Diego raise a perplexed eyebrow for a second. Save for Zorro, what kind of man did this? So efficiently moreover? That was, if not scary, deeply worrying. And last but not least, one question remained. How was he going to explain why he was riding after Díaz?

In the moonless night, the young don bit his lips to silence his embarrassment. He truly had a talent to get himself into prickly situations... That ran in his blood. Well... What did his Uncle Estevan do when caught cheating?

_He accused the other to be the one cheating._

"By all Saints, Benito! Why did you attack me?" Diego asked, choosing to go for a slight variation in which he added a pinch of incoherence. After all, a fall from a horse was not to be taken lightly and these things could happen, couldn't they?

"Er... I am not Benito, patrón, I am Rodrigo."

"Rodrigo?"

The young don felt the vaquero's grasp on his arm tightening as he faked collapsing.

"Let's get you to the doctor's office, Don Diego, and have your head checked."

The young don's eyes widened. Oops. Come to think of it, that was the last thing he wanted. Bad strategy.

"Oh, but there's no need, really. I feel better already- ouch!" Diego winced. Unconsciously, he had rubbed his skull while talking and just touched a painful spot.

"No, Don Diego, I insist. Heads injuries can be rather treacherous. I would never forgive myself if-"

"Father will get worried," the young don cut, feeling such an idiot by what he was going to add, "I promised him that I would be home before nightfall."

By all saints! He felt ridiculous!

"Well, you're late anyway," Rodrigo said, "and if Don Alejandro sees you, he will probably ask me to go and fetch the doctor. Why don't we save the brave doctor from having to make an excursion at night? His hacienda is not far away. Then you can go home and slip in your bed without being disturbed."

The young don's shoulders sunk. Something in Rodrigo's tone told him that the man was more stubborn than a bull. And even more annoying, he was right. Diego needed him on his side so he would not tell anything of this misadventure to his father. He did not want to be assigned a permanent bodyguard, nor hear his father tell the other dons about this _accident. _If he wanted to maintain a low profile, he had to submit himself.

"I will say that I delayed you if that can arrange your affairs," Rodrigo said, as if guessing his thoughts.

Diego raised his eyes. "You would?"

"Sí, patrón. After all, it's only the truth."

The young don mumbled. "All right, let's go to the doctor. But please, do not say a word to my father about my horse fall. I would never hear the end of it!"

"As you wish, Don Diego."

An hour later, both men were wishing Doctor Avilla buenas noches and mounted back on their respective horses. The clouds had become thinner in the sky, stretched to a fragile veil by a blessing wind carrying the salted smell of the ocean. Finally, the night was not going to be as insufferable as it promised only an hour earlier. Not too bright, not too dark, it would even be a perfect night to let Tornado gallop in the hills.

"I feel fine, Rodrigo. You do not need to burden yourself with me. Besides, I would not like to keep you away from loving arms!" the young don said. Though he doubted the vaquero would agree, he wanted to learn where he was going.

"What makes you think I was going to join a woman?"

"Fear and love are the only reasons a man has to ride fast at night."

Rodrigo Díaz chuckled. "I always ride fast, regardless of the hour of the day or night. It makes me feel alive. But I am intrigued. What pushed you to ride fast after me tonight?"

A sparkle ignited the fox's eyes. He knew exactly how he was going to justify this _quid pro quo. _"I was scared."

"Scared? Of what? I was in front of you!" Rodrigo exclaimed.

"Precisely! You were in front of me! And I was also riding fast because of an affair of hearts."

"What? Finally, I am not so sure to trust Doctor Avilla when he said that lump was benign..."

Diego chuckled. "Do not worry, Rodrigo. It just happens that I thought you were Benito and you see, my head vaquero was lately involved in an impossible love affair, and was duly warned by the señorita's father not to woo his daughter anymore. I just wanted to stop him, afraid that he was going to get himself killed."

"Ah! It's well too frequent to mistake one thing for another in the dark. If you don't mind a piece of advice, Don Diego, no matter how honorable your intentions are, do not chase after people once the night has fallen. If I were a true bandido, only Dios knows where you would be now!"

"Ah... I know... I truly thought you were about to slice my throat. By the way, where did you learn how to jump on people like that? That was quite a stunt you pulled! Maybe you could teach me a trick or two?"

A soft chuckle sounded. "One learns fast when one's life is in danger, patrón. But I guess I could show you a few tricks as you say, so next time you don't lay still on the ground like a goat ready to be slain!"

"Well... seen that way, I certainly hope there won't be a next time!"

Hearty laughs echoed in the night.

Then, silent, they made their way on el Camino Real and left it at the fork to take the path snaking up the hill toward the de la Vega lands. Upon reaching the front gate, Rodrigo whispered,

"Here we are, patrón. I'll take care of your horse."

"Gracias, Rodrigo," Diego said, dismounting with a certain apprehension of finding his father taking a breath of cool air in the patio.

"Patrón?"

"Sí?"

"No matter what I heard about you in the last few days, you are the bravest man I was given to encounter in my pitiful existence."

Diego bowed his head and smiled slightly at the compliment. It seemed sincere. "Hasta mañana, Rodrigo."

"Hasta mañana, patrón."

Intrigued, the young don opened the gate as silently as possible and sneaked in the patio, biting his lips. He had put his foot on the first step of the stairs climbing to the mezzanine running along his and his father's bedrooms when the sala's door creaked open.

"Ah! Diego! Gracias a Dios! I was about to send Benito searching for you."

A wince distorted the young don's face as he froze and pivoted on his heels to face his father. Caught red-handed. Maybe he should have gone to the stables and climbed on the hacienda's roof, as he did when coming back from his teenager's secret rendezvous with the other young dons and señoritas.

"Please, Father!" he sighed, resuming his way up. "Stop worrying each time the sun sets and I'm not in my room."

"Ah... Forgive an old-" Don Alejandro paused and, raising the lantern in his hand, frowned. "Why is there grass and earth on your back, my son?"

Diego's eyes widened. "Because I lied down under a tree to read, Father," he replied, adding a bit too naturally, "Do not go imagining that I fell off my horse!"

"Ah! Of course not. At least, I know you are an able caballero."

Resenting the bitter remark, Diego's jaw clenched. "With your permission, I will go and clean myself, then I will stretch my tired legs in my bed."

The old don let out a slightly disappointed sigh and nodded, "Buenas noches, Diego."

"Buenas noches, Father."

Shoulders sunk, Diego climbed the stairs as if each step was a foot high, all too aware of the old don's gaze on his back. However, as soon as he closed his bedroom door behind him, his eyes sparkled with energy. Straightening up, he walked toward Bernardo who was asleep in the chair near the fireplace, and tapped on his shoulder to wake him.

Startled, the mute jumped to his feet.

"Come, Bernardo," Diego said, already standing mischievously in front of the opened door leading to the secret room.

Frowning, the mute drew a Z into thin air with an interrogation point in his face.

The young don nodded and saw his friend's face brightening with a large smile. "You too are happy to see the fox out of his lair again, aren't you?"

Bernardo tilted his head from right to left, as if a bit uncertain.

"Your eyes betray you, mi amigo," Diego chuckled, removing his jacket and throwing it to his mute servant and friend.


	7. Chapter 7

_AN: I apologize for taking so much time to update this story and thank you all for your patience; IcyWaters, a huge bouquet of thanks to you :-) _

* * *

_Zorro's trial_

_Chapter 7_

* * *

Fifteen minutes after leaving the cave, Zorro was on top of a high hill overhanging Don Nacho's fields of drying crops, blinking to clear the drops of sweat running down his eyes. Struggling to pierce the translucent veil, the thin moon barely cast enough light to make out the curves of the hills. But it did not matter. The fox knew each shadow. Even blind, he would ride on el Camino Real fast. All he needed was a direction, and he lacked just that.

Where was Rodrigo Díaz going so fast, he wondered, peering at the fields in hopes of deciphering a moving silhouette. But it was hopeless.

Zorro shook his head, deeply perplexed.

Díaz's insistence to take care of the popinjay tended to show that he was indeed not in a hurry, or that he could suffer a delay. Such careless behavior was seldom compatible with illegal matters, even less with love.

So maybe after all, Díaz indeed always rode fast because he liked to ride fast.

But why then was he riding toward Don Nacho's hacienda?

_Maybe he was lost, _Zorro wondered, heaving a sigh.

Díaz was a mystery. A smirk twitched the fox's lips. There was nothing like a mystery to make his eyes gleam with thrill as an idea popped up, triggered by his own desire to seek a refreshing harbor for the night.

A few miles after their neighbor's hacienda, a path left the Camino Real toward the sinuous course of a small river marking the limits between Nacho's property and his father's. Thanks to the mature weeping willows growing on its banks, it also offered a few choice places for clandestine meetings. Zorro raised his eyes and stared at the horizon in its direction. It was definitively worth a check. And even if he were mistaken, he could still enjoy a few hours to refresh himself and Tornado.

Less than ten minutes later, the fox was riding fast in the middle of the plains. The line of trees hiding the river appeared, a dark mass, growing more and more imposing as he came closer. He was less than two hundred yards away when a tickle in his neck prompted him to halt Tornado. Surprised by the sudden pull on the bridles, the nervous steed reared and snorted his displeasure for stopping this gripping course.

Zorro stared at the darkness, searching for what had triggered such an urge to stop dead in his tracks. His heart beat loudly in his chest, causing blood to throb in his temples.

Tornado shifted and hit the ground with his hoof.

And then he saw it. A brief reddish glow behind long branches spread apart by the wind. There was a campfire near the river.

Grinning from ear-to-ear, Zorro cautiously led his steed toward the river, a hundred yards upstream from the fire in order not to be detected. Shortly after, his black shadow melted in the darkness below the weeping willows. Tornado snorted nervously as he dismounted, causing dry wood to crack under his weight. The fox froze, listening to his surroundings. But the only audible sound was the cry of a nearby owl and the wind whistling in the leaves. Cautious, he moved further toward the river where the ground was heavier due to the presence of mud. As silently as possible, he moved down toward the campfire he had caught sight of a little while earlier.

But soon, the sound of suction from his boots stopped him dead in his tracks. Annoyed, he looked all around him for an alternative path when he heard sputters ahead of him. Someone was moving toward him.

The fox bit his lips not to utter a curse. There was not enough wind now to cover the rustling of the branches and the leaves if he climbed in a tree, and for a very obvious reason, he could not stay where he was.

"I told you I'm certain I heard something," a voice said in the darkness.

Someone waved a torch, casting a soft, orange light just mere feet from where Zorro stood a few seconds ago.

"See, there's nothing here, Roberto. Let's go back," another voice muttered.

Neck deep in the river, Zorro watched the two vaqueros moving back from where they came, worried. The brief light had allowed him to identify Gustavo Valdéz, Don Nacho's head vaquero. The other was Roberto, his unfortunate partner at the game of poker against the lancers two evenings ago.

Curious and appreciating the freshness of the bath, the fox swam toward the center of the river. There, he let the light stream carry his body, without effort or sound, until he arrived at the level of their camp ground.

Zorro winced as he caught sight of a third man sitting on a partially immersed rock with his feet dipping in the quiet waters. Thankfully, he had his back turned to the river at the moment.

Silent, the fox dived and swam toward the facing bank. With the cautiousness of an alligator hunting a prey, he slowly broke the surface and crawled to hide in the middle of high brush where he laid flat on his stomach, invisible, to listen to what was said around the fire.

"Heat is awful tonight," the man on the rock said, "Maybe we should do this tomorrow."

"No. Tonight's Corporal Reyes' watch. He always sleeps," Gustavo replied, crouching next to the river to cup some water in his hands to refresh himself before standing up to pace around.

"They all sleep."

"Reyes sleeps sounder," Roberto chuckled.

In the middle of the brush, the fox silently nodded in agreement. He usually could hear Reyes snoring two streets away. All right, maybe he was exaggerating a bit, but with a favorable wind, from the tavern's door the soldier certainly was heard.

"I tell you, Roberto, Galindo is no better than Monastario. We just replaced one tyrant with another, slyer one. Galindo was lying when he said he had no time to see our case. He is but a thief. A corrupted aristocrat ready to peel the skin off of our backs in order to get wealthier!"

"Por favor, do not talk so loudly, Gustavo!" Roberto muttered.

"What are you afraid of? The pueblo is fifteen miles from here!" Gustavo replied, defiant.

Roberto sighed. "I'm not afraid. Madre de Dios, would you stop pacing? You two just make me nervous. One is salivating like a cougar in front of raw meat and the other is as calm as a flat sea. Am I the only one to feel that what we are planning is wrong?"

"I don't see what's wrong in taking our money back," Gustavo exclaimed.

Zorro frowned. Garcia had told him that the magistrado had given his soldiers their money back the next morning after the game. He thought the case had been settled.

Gustavo halted and turned his head toward his compañero. "That you come with me or not doesn't matter, I'm going now."

In the middle of the brush, the fox's brow furrowed deeper. To hear such anger and emergency in Valdéz's voice made him fear that the vaquero could have gambled his first real pay for months. Monastario, in his plot to ruin Don Nacho and seize his lands, had scared most of the employees, and despite his father's generosity, the few that had remained loyal to Nacho had suffered from the situation.

Diego silently cursed. What was Valdéz thinking?

A light crack overhead caused Zorro to tense. Slowly, he craned his neck to look above his shoulder and stared at the shadows. But the vegetation on this bank was too luxuriant to decipher anything. Cold shudders ran down the fox's spine as he sank deeper in the mud.

The sound of water on embers attracted his attention and when he turned back his eyes, all light had disappeared. The river was pitch black. Snorts sounded. Though the heavy terrain deadened the impact of hooves on the ground, it was obvious that the party had left.

Zorro felt his heart jumping in his chest and all his muscles tensing painfully.

He sympathized with the vaqueros - Galindo had been utterly unfair by giving the soldiers back their money while refusing to do the same for them - but he could not let them break into the magistrado's office. Moreover, he could not bear the idea of Don Nacho being thrown into such an embarrassment if his head vaquero was arrested during their operation. The fox had managed to chase away trouble from his neighbor's lands; he certainly did not want to see it coming back by the rear door. Elena and her mother did not deserve to live again in shame.

Diego heaved a sigh and shook his head, feeling sad. Poor Doña Luisa... She had barely begun showing herself in the pueblo again. That thought made anger rise within him against Valdéz, and the fox decided to intervene. If he was fast enough, he could block the group at the same place where Díaz had inopportunely ambushed him earlier tonight.

As silently as possible, Zorro slipped back into the waters and began to swim counter-current. He had barely given two breaststrokes that a heavy mass hit him in the back.


	8. Chapter 8

_AN: Thank you for your reviews :-) by reading them, I'm beginning to wonder if I would not change the title for "Zorro's bad day!" _

* * *

_Zorro's trial_

_Chapter 8_

* * *

A snore in his ear startled Zorro awake.

In almost complete darkness, he jerked up on his hands and knees when a sudden burning fit of cough seized him and almost threw him back, flat on his stomach on the muddy riverbank. Aware of the danger of his position but unable to do what was necessary to seek protection, he tried to breathe between two regurgitations that lasted so long that he felt like he had swallowed the whole river. And when the ordeal finally ended, his shaking arms yielded under his weight. Gasping, he rolled on his back and, through the tears of pain flooding his eyes, he stared at the dark shadow moving above him.

The fox heaved a sigh of relief and closed his eyes to ease his dizziness. It was Tornado. He was not in any danger.

While his breathing slowed down and became more silent, his mind cleared enough to allow him to ponder his situation. Madre de Dios, what or who had hit him? All he remembered was an impact on his back... pain exploding in his head... then nothing.

A dull sleep began to invade him.

Tornado's nose gently nudged him to move. Exhausted, the fox sat up and, leaning a hand on his steed's neck, straightened up. Then, he groped to find the pommel of his saddle and mounted.

Relying on the beast's sharp senses to warn him if a potential threat arose, Zorro rode back toward his lair. Unlike the night sky that was now almost cleared of clouds and let shine the stars, his mind darkened by the minute for he realized that even if he could still feel the soaked fabric of the mask against his skin, there was no telling that it had not been removed and replaced while he was out. Whoever had knocked him – was it Díaz again? – probably knew his identity. The new vaquero had proven that he had both enough strength and the abilities to catch him off guard.

But why was he alive?

By all means, he should be dead or in jail. Or tied on a horse rump riding toward the carcél. Why was he alive? As the question echoed in the fox's tired mind, a dull panic wrenched his guts tighter and tighter.

He was half way to his lair when his eyes suddenly widened.

_Valdéz!_

"Faster, Tornado, to the pueblo," he said, digging his spurs in the stallion's sides. Now he felt totally awake.

The black stallion rode across the plains, as vivacious as an eagle diving toward his prey, swallowing mile after mile in the blink of an eye. On his back, the caballero clenched his teeth, fearing that despite his powerful mount, he had no way to tell how long he had stayed unconscious and the vaqueros could be only a few minutes ahead of him or in jail already.

And so, the fox felt utterly tense when he penetrated the sleepy pueblo about ten minutes later.

_No gunshots, no cries._ _So far so good,_ he thought as he climbed over the outer wall of the tavern's rear court to open the gate for Tornado. The fox froze and crouched on the narrow structure.

There was already a horse in his hiding place.

_Not so good_... he frowned, worried.

Not liking this at all, he straightened up and climbed on the tavern's roof, the perfect spot to check on both the magistrado's office and the cuartel at the same time.

As he silently crept on the terra cotta tiles, a familiar roar coming from the plaza snatched him a smirk. Half expecting to see Garcia's large shadow sleeping at the bottom of _La Posada's_ door, the fox craned his neck to see what lay a dozen feet below him when he realized that the snore came from further away. His eyes then _followed_ the sound to a tiny silhouette standing up with the chin resting on a rifle's butt.

Zorro shook his head and chuckled silently. How unbelievable it was to witness Reyes competing with Garcia on this matter! At least, it was reassuring. That the corporal still slept so soundly meant that mayhem had not yet broken over the pueblo. He still had time to prevent the vaqueros from committing a mistake.

Determined, the fox turned his eyes toward Galindo's office. No light filtered through the windows but he knew that the drapes, made of thick, dark brown velour, would prevent all light from coming out. It so happened that Don Carlos Galindo had left at the end of the afternoon for Capistrano and was not due back before late tomorrow. It was indeed the best moment for the vaqueros to retrieve their money.

A movement below the balcony, close to the stairs leading to the office, caught his eyes. Two silhouettes briefly appeared from the shadows. One moved out and climbed to the first level while the other retracted in the dark recess to stand watch.

_Just in time..._ Zorro thought with a grave air.

How was he supposed to stop them without raising the alarm and having them - or him - caught? Aside from avoiding an embarrassing affair for Don Nacho, the last thing he wanted was to see his name associated with the vaqueros as one could easily think that he was in cahoots with them, maybe even their chief.

After heaving a deep, tense sigh, Zorro moved from roof to roof, using surrounding walls, stairs and rear courts to reach the building behind the magistrado's. Then, as agile as a cat, he jumped the ten-foot gap between the two balconies. Wood cracked loudly under his impact. Fast, the fox flattened in a dark spot and waited a few seconds, immobile, hoping that the vaquero in the street would come and check.

All he could do was to make enough fuss to scare them off, but not too much in order not to wake up Reyes, all the while trying not to be seen by either party. Touchy maneuver but he did not have lots of other viable options. A smile lightened his face as he remembered the trick he had played on Garcia at the mission, masqueraded as the ghost of the mad monk.

When no movement happened after a moment, Zorro checked the window next to him. It so happened that Bernardo had recently taught him how to pick locks. Though it had been a bit disturbing to see his loyal friend display such magic fingers, he said nothing and watched the demonstrations with a great interest.

A grin twitched the fox's lips as he felt the lock yield with a snap.

The next instant, he was breaking in the magistrado's apartment, deciding to pace around to make believe that another thief was in the place. But as he spread open the curtain, a very faint light coming from a corner made him frown. His feet had not yet touched the hard floor ground that a sudden, irrational urge not to stay where he was wrenched his guts.

"Zorro?!" someone exclaimed.

The fox's eyes widened.

_Díaz?!_

Letting his survival instinct speak and command his body, Zorro jumped through the opened window just as a shot burst, clashing loud in the night. His momentum caused him to break the guardrail. At the last second, his fingers grasped the edge of the balcony and halted his fall. Suspended by one arm, he then jumped the last few feet without difficulty.

The fox stood up fast and flattened against the wall, taking cover under the balcony. His mind rushed, analyzing his surroundings for a route of escape and realizing at the same time that the horse he had seen in the tavern's rear court was Díaz's!

_Son of..._ Zorro bit his lips to the blood out of rage.

Another shot echoed. In the plaza. The cuartel's gates creaked open and dozens of steps reverberated as soldiers rushed out. The next moment, cannons spit bullet after bullet.

In the mayhem, Zorro whistled for Tornado and brushed the wall toward the corner of the building to meet him when the hair on his neck stood right up on his skin.

"Zorro?!" someone exclaimed. It was Gustavo's voice. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to keep you from making a mis-" Zorro whispered before jerking his finger straight over his mouth while blocking Gustavo and his friend's path. He had just received some dust on the nose. A plank cracked.

With his finger, he pointed overhead to make them realize the threat.

Damn. They could not move into the open without risk of being shot like rabbits; if they stayed, the soldiers would sooner or later surround their position. They were trapped.

Across the street, Tornado's nose briefly appeared. The well-trained stallion stopped at his sign. Seeing there his – _their –_ only chance of escaping, the fox emitted a low growl, a strange, cold-shudder mix between a coyote's cry and a howl. At once, Tornado sprung into his fastest gallop to lure their enemies away.

The fox's heart rocked in his chest as he waited to see if the subterfuge worked.

"Over there! He's leaving!"

More rallying cries echoed as the planks cracked overhead, signaling that Díaz too was moving away. An instant later, dozens of horses carrying soldiers rode through the street.

"Where are your mounts?" Zorro whispered to the two vaqueros.

"Behind the blacksmith's shop."

The fox sighed in relief. Tornado had gone the opposite way. "Go and ride south. I'll try to keep them far from you."

The vaqueros nodded in agreement. But as they were about to cross the street, a massive soldier appeared just at the corner of the building, aiming a rifle to them. From the corner of his eye, the fox saw Gustavo raising his pistol at a distance that even blind, he could not miss to hit home.

In a quarter of a second, Zorro made his decision.


	9. Chapter 9

_AN: Thank you all for your reviews :-)_

* * *

_Zorro's trial_

_Chapter 9_

* * *

Recognizing Garcia's shape, Zorro jerked Gustavo's arm away to deflect the shot while in reaction, the sergeant fired his own pistol. It was as if a hoof had just hit him in the shoulder. The impact threw him to the ground, Valdéz falling on top of him.

"Zorro?!" Garcia exclaimed just before being hit by something.

Groggy, the fox saw the other vaquero helping his fellow to his feet and dragging him away, leaving him alone with Garcia, crumbled on the ground, unconscious. Wincing out of pain, Zorro stood up and staggered toward his unmoving friend, shaken to the core. Falling on all fours, he checked if Garcia's heart was still beating in his chest, but it was too hard to tell, between his own pounding blood in his temple that deafened his ear and the layer of fat around his friend's chest. So, he moved up and bent over the unshaven face to detect a breath instead. Satisfied to feel one, warm and steady, he patted Garcia's shoulder and tried to rise to his feet while lifting his friend's body at the same time.

The fox collapsed, half on the ground, half on Garcia's body, breathless by the tremendous effort. He stayed there for a few seconds, his head using the prominent belly as a pillow, trying to slow down the pace of his heart. If he were not in pain and in the middle of the pueblo, the situation would have snatched him a good laugh.

"Sergeant? Are you here?" Reyes' small voice creaked.

Zorro raised an eyebrow. Dammit! He was caught... then again, he almost laughed.

"Corporal," he asked, rolling to his side and taking support on Garcia to straighten up.

"Zorro?!"

Now he laughed. A tired chuckle that brushed with insanity.

"Help me carry the sergeant, would you, por favor? I think he's been hit."

"Sí, Señor," Reyes said, obeying. "Will you surrender then?"

"What do you think?"

There was an awkward silence.

Clenching his teeth, Zorro managed with Reyes' help, to more or less lift Garcia's body and drag him to the cuartel. There, he entered in the inner court that was deserted as the garrison was out chasing Tornado, and added, "Corporal, take good care of my favorite commandante. I will now retire in my quarters for tonight."

"I knew you were a man of honor, Señor Zorro," the corporal said while the fox headed toward the stables. "The jail is over there, Señor."

"I know," he replied, untying Garcia's horse.

"What are you doing, Señor?"

"Buenas noches, Corporal!" he said, raising his hand in salute as he kicked the mare's sides and disappeared through the still opened gates.

Zorro found Tornado in the hills, ten miles north of the pueblo. Though, to be more exact, it was the steed that found his master. At his approach, Tornado reared and snorted, causing Zorro to smile as he dismounted from the mare. Was this a display of jealousy?

Relieved to see no sign of the army wherever his eyes lay upon, he led the steed toward a well-needed rest, cutting through fields of lucerne, his nerves raw by what had just happened in the pueblo and his brow furrowed with worry for Garcia. He hoped the brave man was not too seriously injured. Because of him, moreover... If he had not decided to intervene, maybe nothing would have happened. Well, the vaqueros would obviously have been caught as Díaz was waiting for them, but maybe Garcia would not have been hurt. He was hurting too. Looking forward to be home, the fox raised his eyes and frowned.

The tall shadow of San Gabriele's bell tower appeared in the distance. How come? How could have he missed the fork leading to his lair?

All a sudden, the weight of his exhaustion and pain crashed on him and his chin fell on his chest. Eyes closed, he breathed deeply to gather his senses but it only increased his dizziness. Having doubts he could stay mounted much longer in this condition, he kicked his loyal steed's sides to head toward the mission.

A few minutes later, Padre Felipe's face appeared in the doorway, dressed in a long gown, barefooted, a candle in his hand. The Franciscan's eyes widened as he moved the small flame up and down to get a better view on the mess the fox was.

"Santa María! Have you fought against a bull in the tar pitch, my son?"

"That would certainly have been more fun," Zorro replied, conjuring a faint smile that transformed into a wince when he pushed on the frame of the door to straighten up. "I am in need of your assistance, Padre."

"That is the least to say! Come, enter quickly," Padre Felipe replied, offering his arm as support.

Stiff, the fox staggered into the sacred shelter. However, when he noticed that he was leaving traces of mud in the corridor, he jerked his hand away from the whitewashed wall, embarrassed. "I am sorry, Padre. Maybe I should not have come..."

"Nonsense, my son. If God made Adam from mud, who are we to say it is dirty?" the padre replied with a smirk that soothed Zorro's mind.

After climbing up a few stairs, the padre stopped in front of a wooden door that he opened. The flame of the candle revealed a small, Spartan bedroom, with a narrow bed in one corner and a prie-dieu at the bottom of a cross suspended on the wall for the only furniture.

As Padre Felipe lit the candelabra hung next to the bed, Zorro looked down at his boots and clothes, suddenly perplexed, not daring to touch anything by fear of sacrilege.

"Lie down, por favor, my son. I would prefer you to worry for my back if I have to pick you up on the ground than for the dirt you are leaving in your wake."

Padre Felipe's reproach snatched him a faint smile. Nodding his gratitude, Zorro untied his cape and sat down on the edge of the mattress. With the Franciscan's help, he then removed his shirt that a mix of blood, sweat and mud glued to his skin.

"Lie down while I go and fetch what I need to care for your wound," the padre said.

Teeth clenched, the fox nodded and obeyed. Though rough and hard, the pillow seemed the most comfortable one in the world. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling relief invading him. He was at the center of the mission quarters, the core. Nothing bad could happen to him here.

A small pressure on the shoulder made him wince. Zorro opened his eyes and saw Padre Felipe over him, applying a perfumed ointment on his wound.

"God granted you solid bones for your mission. The bullet hit your collarbone and grazed the flesh below without causing too much harm. If you spare your arm exercise during the next few days, the pain will disappear fast enough."

Zorro sighed of relief. Because of the burning pain on his whole left side, he had feared that the wound was more serious.

"You can rest here all night if you wish, nobody will disturb you while in these sacred walls."

"I appreciate the offer, Padre," the fox said, sitting up with difficulty, "but..."

The words died in his throat as he lay back down and massaged his eyes. What was he going to say to his father? Which pathetic excuse would he conjure this time? Reading a heavy book for the whole night? Injured while staying immobile, doing nothing. He could hear his father's sarcasm from here. The disappointment he would read in his eyes, mutating in a condescending glance to see how hopeless his son had become.

Swallowing a lump, Zorro threw his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. After a moment, he looked up from the ground and said, "I wish to confess, Padre."

The Franciscan met his eyes and slowly nodded. "Whatever you will say will not leave this room, my son," he said, sitting down next to him.

"I do not know if what I am doing is right or wrong anymore."

The fox sighed deeply. That was in fact less a confession than a call for advice. After his father, Padre Felipe was the one who was the closest to a family member he could think of. There were times a son needed his father's guidance. This was such a time. And not being able to do it was more and more oppressive.

"Even Christ suffered doubts, my son. Especially in his last hours. But in the end, he knew his sacrifice was to bring back life through hope to his rejected children and thus to save our souls."

"I do not pretend to save souls, Padre..."

"But you certainly bring hope."

"And pain too. I do not remember Christ hurting anyone. Maybe it is time for me to end this charade..."

Padre Felipe let out the long sigh that the fox's tightly clenched teeth would not allow him to exhale.

"Do you think it will lessen the pain, my son?"

Zorro sighed, imagining the trouble on his father's face upon discovering that his son had lied to him blatantly for months, not trusted him with his intentions, kept him away from his life. Revealing his identity would be like someone living in a dark cave for months and suddenly going out in the most blazing sun. It would cause an acute, blinding pain, so intense that he would prefer to crawl back into the cave.

"Sometimes, darkness is a lesser evil than light," the padre continued, as if reading his mind.

Zorro turned a perplexed, interrogative glance toward the fray whose soft glance felt reassuring.

"My son, I certainly cannot tell you what you should do or not do with your life, but just know that Christ was not alone to suffer when he carried his cross to our redemption, nor was he alone when he joined the Father. But the path he opened doing so is a living legacy in each of us. It is our choice only to walk on it or not. That said, when one is walking on a path-"

"One is better to look ahead in order not to trip," Zorro cut with a smile, repeating the words the padre had taught him, and he was sure he still taught to the children of the pueblo.

"Do not look back. Do not ask yourself too many questions about what you could have or should have done, or if there is another, easier way somewhere around you. As long as you have Christ in front of you, you are on the right path. Trust Him."

The fox slowly nodded.

"Ah! Against all odds, you were truly listening when you were young..." Padre Felipe chuckled, adding quickly, "Whoever you are, I am honored to have made such an impression on you."

A smile lightened Zorro's eyes as he stood up. "Gracias, Padre."

After exchanging a few last words and a benediction, the fox mounted on Tornado and rode away toward his lair, the turmoil in himself pacified. Tonight, no matter his pains or the heat, he would rest.

* * *

When Diego opened his eyes the next day, the sun was already high in the sky and the songs of cicadas filled the air. A warm breeze entered through the half closed shutters, playing with the locks of hair on his forehead. Feeling well and relaxed, the young don rolled on his side to cast a look at the clock, and jumped out of his bed. It was ten past two. No wonder he felt rested!

While he quickly refreshed himself, shaved, and dressed, Diego noted to himself to thank Bernardo for this. Hunger guiding his steps, he walked out of his bedroom, climbed down the stairs, strode across the patio and entered in the sala without slowing down his pace. But as he headed toward the kitchen, the study door opened on his path.

"Ah! Diego! Buenas tardes, my son. Do you feel better?" the old don said.

Diego stopped dead in his tracks and forced a smile on his face. He had never liked this way his father had of examining him above his lenses. When he was young, it was to check for obvious bumps and bruises; since the fox was born, it was to check if there was still life in his son's eyes.

"Sí, gracias. Why do you ask?" the young don replied, sounding a little suspicious.

"Juan? Bring us refreshments, por favor," Don Alejandro cried, before inviting him to go down the couple of steps toward the sala, adding in a softer tone, "Bernardo and I tried twice to wake you up but we did not even get a snore from you. Brought me back twenty-five years ago to when you were a niño. Your mother certainly knew how to put you to sleep. I only wished she had left the recipe to wake you."

Diego relaxed and chuckled. Seeing his father being in a tender mood toward him did him a world of good.

"The heat kept my eyes opened for a long part of the night. It was almost dawn when I finally dozed off," he said, not truly lying. It was almost three when he had slipped under his bed sheets for Bernardo had insisted that he take a full bath to rub all the mud out of his hair and skin before allowing him access to the passageway leading back to the hacienda. All things considered, he was grateful for his friend's obstinacy.

"I know what you mean. This heat is insufferable lately. Are you sure you do not wish to join me to Monterey? The weather will be easier to endure with the ocean breeze cooling the temperatures at night."

Diego frowned. He had forgotten about this business trip, a meeting with an old, university friend of his father's, Don Gregorio Verdugo was his name if he recalled correctly. "When will you leave?" he asked, sitting down at the table and picking up an orange.

"Tomo-"

Voices echoed outside and the door opened, interrupting their discussion.

"Patrón?"

Father and son straightened up in alarm. "What is the matter, Benito?" the old don asked, worried.

"Gustavo Valdéz, Don Nacho's head vaquero, he is dead."

Diego clenched all his muscles not to jump to his feet. His father met his eyes.

"Are you in pain, my son?"

"Just a sore neck, Father," he replied, forcing himself to relax and sit down. "How did this happen?"

There was a silence.

"What is it Benito? You know you can speak freely to me," Don Alejandro said, encouraging his vaquero to talk.

"He was killed, patrón. Zorro killed him."

Diego's eyes widened.

"What are you saying, Benito, this is nonsense!" Don Alejandro claimed, obviously very disturbed by this affirmation, though not as much as Diego.

"Zorro has never killed anyone. Is there proof? A witness?" the latter asked, hands clenched into fists and heart pumping with furry in his chest.

A grave expression on his face, Benito nodded. "Gustavo's friend, Miguel Bonavista, was with him when it happened." The vaquero bit his lips and looked briefly away, embarrassed, before adding in a whisper, "I was there too."

All blood left Diego's face at once.

* * *

_AN: I am aware that talking about religious matters is not a simple affair. _

_However, the first reason I did it, is that in McCulley's work, it was said that Fray Felipe was Zorro's/Diego's confessor, implying that indeed, our hero, like many people of his time, was close to the Church. _

_Another reason is that I like when a hero shows doubts and questions his doings, putting in balance the good for others and the sacrifices he has to make, the painful impact his decisions have on the ones he loves, thus allowing the part of selfishness in him to speak. Who never wanted to give everything up, even a quarter of second in a difficult day? _

_Padre Felipe is a wonderful ear to receive all these sane interrogations and also to offer, if not advice, at least a spiritual support to keep our hero's faith in his path and make him more determined than ever if possible._

_Finally, the last reason is that I like Padre Felipe too much and want to give him a bigger role that the series somehow refused to honor him._

_With this said, my understanding of the religious matters are obviously affected by our century's stormy relations with the Church. In this chapter I tried, to the best of my abilities, to write what a fray could have said to a young man feeling lost and seeking advice in the beginning of the XIXth century. _


	10. Chapter 10

_Zorro's trial_

_Chapter 10_

* * *

Astounded, Diego stared at his head vaquero taking a crumpled piece of paper out from his pocket. The anger that burnt in Benito's eyes as he unfolded it and handed it to the old don electrified the sala, like lightning from a dry thunderstorm, setting the hills on fire. A disaster amplified by the lack of rain. Tasting the bitter taste of ashes in his mouth, Diego forced his legs to move around the table and cast a look above his father's shoulder. This could not be real.

A tight knot wrenched his guts as he quickly read the public notice accusing Zorro of Gustavo Valdéz's murder. His eyes froze on the reward's amount. Five thousand pesos?! That was an incredible incentive for a public hunt! The knot in his guts tightened several notches as he slumped in his chair to gulp down the news. Somehow, had the word murderer not been associated with it, he knew a part of him would certainly have liked this injunction.

"The magistrado has these nailed on every post and wall in the pueblo," Benito said, hands in his pockets, looking defeated.

There was a tense silence where the three men looked at each other, at a loss. But if they looked embarrassed, it was nothing compared to the turmoil twisting in Diego's mind.

"It is not all, I am afraid, Patrón."

Don Alejandro looked up from the notice, white as a ghost. "Come and sit down with us, Benito," he said, giving the yellowed paper to Diego who, realizing that his hand slightly shook, put it down on the table and stood up to pour himself a glass of red wine. Then, while Benito began to tell last night's events, the young don took advantage that he was turning his back to both men to get a grasp on himself.

"It was so dark and it happened so fast..."

The vaquero paused.

"What happened, Benito?" Don Alejandro encouraged as Diego came back with three glasses of Rioja.

"Zorro happened, Patrón."

Diego sat down slowly and stretched his legs to relieve the tension. "Zorro?" he asked in the most detached tone he could utter.

The head vaquero nodded.

"Roberto said to the magistrado that they tried to arrest Zorro as he broke in his office to earn the reward but the latter fired his pistol."

Diego's jaw and fists clenched as he listened Benito, rage building at an exponential rate inside him. It took him all his strength not to leap to his feet and hammer both fists on the table claiming that this was a lie. How could Benito and his friends dare to use the fox to create themselves an alibi for their own wrongdoing? And to openly lie to him and his father moreover?

"Gustavo died a few minutes after we arrived at the doctor's hacienda. The loss of blood was too much to save him. I am just coming back from his house. Augusta is devastated... she went into labor in the morrow. The doctor said it was too soon..."

As the vaquero lowered his gaze to whisper those last words, Diego felt his sorrow piercing right through his heart. More than anything else, Benito and the others were protecting the young widow and her two young daughters... And after all, he had not seen Benito last night; it was possible that the young man was only reporting what he had been told had happened, was not it?

"I am sorry, Benito," he said, "I know you were close to him. Is there anything we can do for Valdéz's family?"

The vaquero shook his head. "Don Nacho will see to them," he said before taking a deep breath, "But it is not only for them that I am worried, Patrón. Gustavo had many friends who will not grieve easily his death. We must warn Zorro. He is in danger. If only I had knocked him out harder..."

Diego jerked his head up. "What?" he said at the same time his father asked:

"What I still do not understand, Benito, is what you were all doing in the first place at the pueblo so late. Certainly you were not without knowing that the magistrado had left for Capistrano."

Diego looked at his father, and heaved a short sigh upon noticing that he was staring at Benito, for he knew that, had his father's keen eyes been on him a second earlier, he would have seen Zorro's sword springing out of his pupils toward their head vaquero.

With great effort, the young don then stayed as still as his nerves allowed him to in order not to attract attention, taking instead a sip of his glass while the young vaquero heaved a deep sigh and briefly buried his face in his hands.

"Gustavo wanted to retrieve his money. He needed it to reimburse a creditor that threatened to sell his debt to a mine corporation in San Diego."

"This is beyond belief..." Don Alejandro muttered, standing up to pace like a lion in a cage, arms crossed on his chest. All a sudden, the old don pivoted on his heels and pointed to Benito with his finger. "So Zorro tried to stop you and in the fight, Gustavo got himself killed? Is this what happened, Benito?"

Diego felt his heart pumping faster in his chest as his father touched the truth.

"As I said, I was too far and it was too dark... But it is a possibility, Patrón. I tried to talk to the magistrado about this before coming to see you, but he would not listen and I found myself facing some men I called friends yesterday."

"And now Zorro is accused of murder though it could have been nothing more than an accident or self-defense..." Diego said with a calm that struck him. Though his teeth were clenched, all trace of his previous ire against him vanished. Benito was an honest man caught in a murky affair. Sometimes one needed a little time to think before being able to decipher what one should do. By coming to talk to them, even reluctantly, Benito had shown that he was a brave man. And his worry for Zorro was genuine, as proved his next words.

"We must warn Zorro to be more than careful from now on. Some of the people who helped him in the past might change their opinion. A place he called shelter could easily turn into a deadly trap."

"Alas..." Don Alejandro sighed, resuming his pacing in the sala, "That the magistrado puts all the crimes in the country on Zorro's head to have him arrested should not come as a surprise. It will be to the judge to determine which count is valid or not."

Diego let out a bitter chuckle. "If there is a trial, Father. With such a reward, I fear fox hunting will soon become more popular than horse races."

"My son, when one walks the path Zorro chose to venture on, one also knows that it is only a matter of time before something sour happens, for oneself or for others. If he planned to grow older, he chose the wrong path. The hangman's noose is always closer than one thinks or hopes. However, perhaps it is just the warning that tells him it is time to stand down. He has already done a lot of good to California."

Diego felt his heart sink as his father's icy words penetrated his soul, shattering in pieces Padre Felipe's comforting ones.

And be remembered as an assassin? If he truly was the caballero he claimed to be, this was a violation his honor could certainly not accept. Such was Diego's reply to his father's hardhearted observation. It gnawed at his nerves to have to keep it silent. And yet, enough blood had been spilled...

"What is it, my son? You seem rather pale. Have you eaten yet by the way?"

"What if another injustice arises and forces him out?" Diego asked, eyes staring at the dark liquid in his glass for he did not dare to look at his father right now for fear of being unmasked.

"You want to know if he will take the risk to go out and gamble his or someone else's life? I do not know, Diego. It is entirely up to him now," Don Alejandro said, sitting back down around the table. "I remember your grandfather telling me once a story about the second or third commandante to have ruled the pueblo... what was his name already... Vicente de..."

Don Alejandro's brow furrowed as he tried to force his memory to release the full name and sighed deeply as he obviously failed.

"Anyway," he continued, "the situation was all but easy at his arrival. But despite all the difficulties and tensions, he was a fine man and respected as such. Though there were voices to say that he lacked the needed iron grip to deal with the Indians, very few know that we in fact owe him the peace with them. Alas... more might have known his true valor if one day, he had not failed protecting the villagers against an attack of a group of bandidos that left many dead. People blamed him, hiding their fear and sorrow under the iron blanket of anger. Anger always needs a target... In the end, the governor relieved the commandante of duty for a grave mistake in judgment. He tried to defend his honor, but he unfortunately died shortly after of illness."

Don Alejandro stopped and shook his head. Diego knew that his father found the death peculiar and waited for him to resume, but when he continued, he obviously had decided not to share what were only conjectures.

"However, according to your grandfather, and knowing the man he was I tend to accept his version, to him, there was little the officer could have done to foresee the vicious attack and he defended the pueblo with honor and courage, even suffering injuries in his duty while he sought and obtained help from the natives to defend the haciendas. Ah! Vicente de Hueso. That was his name. Though history recalls him as a weak commandante that almost lost the pueblo, he was a hero."

"That is unfair," Diego said, eyes wide still hung to his father's words.

"It is, indeed," the old don continued, "But this is how it is. People's memory is both selective and short-termed. Until now, the citizens have seen Zorro as a hero; I fear that from now on, he will be hunted as a murderer."

Breathing deeply, Diego pushed the chair to stand up. "News rides fast, Father. You would oblige me by taking Benito with you to Monterey."

Don Alejandro raised an interrogative, almost condescending glance toward him. "Why so, my son? I am perfectly able to-"

"Many people will think that Zorro will not show his face anytime soon under the circumstances, including bandidos, Father."

"Don Diego is right, Patrón, one will be better to be very cautious on the roads now."

"But if you come with me, who will take the bull to the herd in the hills?"

"I will, Father," Diego said promptly, seeing there a unique opportunity to spend time with Díaz. His instincts still told him to mistrust the man. And it was high time to have a little chit-chat with him.

Don Alejandro's eyes blink before they lightened with a pure joy. "Very well, my son."


	11. Chapter 11

_Zorro's trial _

_Chapter 11_

* * *

His jaw clenched, Don Diego stood up, bent his head, and apologized.

"If you do not mind, I will go now," he said. "I prefer to pass the Lion Rock before dusk."

"Patrón?" Benito called, sending him a worried glance, "Take Rodrigo with you, he might not know the land, but he knows his stuff."

A dangerous smile lightened the young don's face. "I will."

Then, he walked out of the sala, not bothering to force his shoulders to relax. His tension could be easily mistaken for apprehension, and his father's burning glance on his back did not worry him the least.

The young don strode across the patio and climbed the steps two by two. He found Bernardo in the secret room, folding Zorro's clean clothes. In a few words, he explained to him the situation and his plan to confront Díaz.

"Benito did not say that Rodrigo was present yesterday evening but he was. And the magistrado was not in Capistrano like my father believes he was. I saw him, seconds before Díaz left his office."

The mute raised two fingers and turned them one around the other, indicating a relation of some sort between the two men.

"Definitely, mi amigo. And I intend to find out which one," Diego said, nodding toward the door, "Let's go."

Shortly after, they reached the top of the hill from where the dusty road snaked down toward the pueblo, the terra cotta tiled roofs and white adobe walls appearing in the hollow of the valley, reflecting the sun's bright rays.

Diego briefly stopped to scan the arid landscape of his childhood. Like dusk caused all things to turn grey, the plains today seemed unwelcoming, almost as if he were a stranger to this part of the country, and they seemed to tell him: Go away! You're not wanted here anymore! Leave!

So this was how it felt to be a pariah.

Realizing that his gums were aching under the tension of his jaw, Diego let out a deep breath, relaxed and willed the disturbing feeling away when a small touch on the arm startled him.

"I'm fine, mi amigo," he said, forcing a smile on his lips to reassure his loyal compañero. A faint smile that did not hit home. Like him, Bernardo understood the seriousness of his situation.

Straightening on his saddle, the young don resumed his way down the sinuous path.

As the windows on the houses appeared, the tiny silhouettes working around them grew wider and sharper. In the backyards he rode along, heads raised above sticks of brooms, rakes and spades. Polite salutes sounded, always accompanied by nods or smiles that one after the other cheered his heart up. Perhaps he was dramatizing things a little. After all, Don Diego de la Vega would always be welcomed in the pueblo, would not he? Ah! If only the popinjay's skin was not so tight and itchy at times...

His father's words about the commandante Vicente de Hueso filled his thoughts when a cry of pain instantly followed by a 'baboso' jerked him back to the present.

A soft chuckle escaped Diego's lips as he made his steed move back a few steps to peek a glance in the street they had just passed by.

"Buenos tardes, Sergeant," he called, engaging his palomino in the street running along the church's side.

The next moment, he stopped next to the imposing soldier who was, with Corporal Reyes, nailing a notice on a post just outside the bakery store. The smell of bread that escaped the opened doors tickled his appetite. A brief, imploring glance conveyed his wish to Bernardo who, with a smile and a quick nod, dismounted and rushed into the store to get him food.

"Buenos tardes, Don Diego," the sergeant replied, taking off his hat to salute, thus revealing a wide bandage on top of his skull.

"What happened to your head, my good friend?" he asked as he dismounted too. Though he sounded worried, he was in fact relieved that the soldier had gotten off only with a lump.

"Like always, Don Diego," Garcia replied with a wince, "Zorro happened."

The young don bit his lips to keep his face serious. "Oh! Do not tell me the rascal knocked you down again? The nerve of it!"

"Sí. Er... I mean no." Garcia paused, looking perplexed.

"Are you feeling all right, Sergeant?" Diego inquired.

In answer to his question, the imposing soldier looked all around him in suspicion before bending toward Diego's shoulder, and careful to turn his back to the corporal, he whispered: "The magistrado told me not to talk about it."

"Then you should obey Don Galindo's order," the young don said, catching sight of Reyes, on his tip toes, trying to overhear their conversation. Upon meeting his glance, the latter jumped and resumed the notice posting.

Diego was considering inviting the sergeant to the tavern when the latter said, "I am a soldier, and I obey orders, Don Diego. But I am also a soldier in the King's army, and we honor honesty amongst our ranks. What do you think I should do?"

"Honor versus order? Hmm... that is a rather tough question, my friend."

"I know..." Garcia said, shaking his head in despair. Obviously, something tormented him.

"But if you want my opinion, when a deep sense of honor beats in a soldier's heart, obeying an order and listening to one's conscience become one and the same."

The sergeant raised a perplexed look toward the young don.

"Er... listening to one's conscience... you are right, Don Diego. Would you help me for a second, por favor?"

"Certainly, Sergeant. Any way I can."

"Gracias. Because the magistrado is accusing Zorro of having killed Gustavo Valdéz but I was there and... and..." Garcia stopped to scratch his head, thoughtful, before suddenly moving toward Reyes. "You are me, Corporal."

"I am you?" Reyes said, looking at his feet as if something was amiss.

"Sí, you are me. Perfecto, do not move, Sergeant."

"Sergeant? Am I promoted?"

"Sí," Garcia said before shaking his head, eyes wide, "Of course not, baboso! I am just trying to reconstitute the scene of the crime like capitán Monastario had shown me once." The sergeant let out a deep sigh and shook his head before explaining further, "So you see Don Diego, I was here and Gustavo was..."

Just at that moment, Bernardo walked out of the bakery, a large brown bag in his arms. Before the mute could react, Garcia grabbed his arm and dragged him into the street, saying, "And Gustavo was just here. Hmm... something is wrong... Ah!"

Without saying anything, the imposing soldier pivoted, stepped back toward Reyes and took his rifle from his hand. Anticipating the maneuver, Diego grabbed the brown bag filled with pastries from his friend's hands in time to free them for the weapon.

Only it was without counting on Bernardo's will to play. Trying his best not to laugh, Diego then watched the mute shaking his head and giving back the rifle to the sergeant who in turned handed it back to him. After a few exchanges, the imposing soldier's face grew redder while Bernardo's grew more and more sullen, convincing the young don to intervene and persuade his friend to stop the comedy.

"Perfecto," the sergeant said, catching sight of the long churro with sugar around the crust that Diego was chewing. At once, ire vanished from his eyes to be replaced by envy. "Don Diego?"

"Sí, Sergeant?" the young don asked between two chunks.

"You are Zorro," Garcia whispered, his eyes still on the pastry.

Diego's eyes went wide as he choked.

"Oh! It is just to help me remember, Don Diego. It is... like a play, nothing else," Garcia reassured while Bernardo let go of the rifle to tap on his master's back who, coughing in his fist, struggled to catch his breath. Irritated, he handed the bag to his friend and moved a few feet away to get a hold on himself.

"Of course," he said after a moment, his voice a bit raspy and tears shining in his eyes, "I am happy to help you in whatever way I can. Where was the rascal?"

Then, with a greater interest than the sergeant could fathom, Diego let Garcia placed him on the stage of the crime, taking back the bag of churros from Bernardo's hands so this one could hold the rifle.

"Perfecto, perfecto..." Garcia said, stretching his arms to adjust the distance between Reyes and Diego. "Por favor, Don Diego, would you try to snatch the rifle from your manservant's hands?"

With a reluctant smile, the young don gave the bag to Reyes and obliged. But it was without counting on the mute who, for some reason, decided against playing the game. Catching the warning behind his friend's faked angry glance, Diego bit his lips not to chuckle and gave up, flapping his arms in defeat and lowering his head in sign of submission. "I am afraid Bernardo will not let go," he said, sheepish. "Once you have given him something... Oh by the way, con permiso, Corporal, I will take this back if you do not mind," he added, pointing at the bag of churros.

"Of course, Don Diego."

"Ah... It does not matter, Don Diego," Garcia said, though the object of his deception was ambiguous considering the focus of his eyes, "Zorro had his two hands on the rifle when I was knocked. And Corporal Reyes said my rifle was hot when he picked it up on the ground."

"Sí, Sergeant. It had just fired."

"So you see, Don Diego, Zorro no more killed Don Nacho's head vaquero than he knocked me down. In fact, I would say that I owe him my life. I told all this to the magistrado but he said it was ridiculous. Why would an outlaw save a soldier?"

The young don's heart tightened upon seeing the deep despair on the sergeant's face as he continued to relate:

"Don Galindo added that who shot the vaquero does not matter. Valdéz was trying to arrest Zorro and was killed during the fight that ensued so Zorro is responsible for his death."

Diego took a deep sigh to relieve his nerves. There was one thing that bothered him.

"But I thought that Don Galindo was in Capistrano, how come is he back so soon?"

"You do not know, Don Diego?"

The young don shook his head, perplexed. He had seen the magistrado at his window the previous night, seconds before Rodrigo Díaz walked out of his office. To him, it seemed that Galindo had never left Los Angeles. There was something wrong here, something that told him that he missed a piece of the puzzle.

"The magistrado was almost half way to Capistrano when he realized that he had forgotten one important file, so he rode back to the pueblo," Garcia said, explaining the mystery, "But as soon as he entered in his office, Zorro fell on him and trussed him up. We found him in his closet this morning."

Diego let out a long sigh. So that was why Galindo was bringing credit to the vaqueros' story.

_Díaz... _

"Are you all right, Don Diego?" the sergeant asked.

The young don looked up from the ground, realizing that he was massaging his temples to will a headache away.

"Oh, I am afraid that once again I read too long in the night," Diego winced, before nodding to Bernardo that it was time to go, "If you will excuse me, Señores, I need to get going and find two of my vaqueros. There has been a change in the schedule that they must be told about."

"Which vaqueros, Don Diego?" Garcia asked, resuming his duty of nailing the notices on posts.

"Miguel and the new one, Rodrigo Díaz."

"Oh! I talked to them earlier. I am afraid you have made all this way for nothing because they left for the mission almost an hour ago."

The young don's eyes squinted. "Gracias for the information. I wish you an excellent day, my good friend."

"Gracias, Don Diego, though I do not see how it can be good when my head hurts with each nail I put."

A mischievous smirk lightened the young don's face. "Well, first, to hurt you have to be alive, and second, you now have five thousand pesos just waiting for you at the corner of the street to grasp," he said, raising a hand to his head in salute before mounting on his palomino. Riding away, he left Garcia behind him, the hammer suspended in the air and a dreamy smile on his face.

However, his audacious banter did not manage to relieve the young don's tension for he felt the ghost of the hangman's noose that had closed on his neck a few months ago tightening again around his throat. As Benito said this morning, the vaqueros will not mourn easily their friend's disappearance and Galindo's reward poured oil on the fire. And if Garcia spread the word that Zorro had saved him... he feared no amount of water would ever extinguish their ire.

As they crossed the plaza at a slow pace and passed by the magistrado's office, Diego cast a quick glance all around him. Seeing no one, he nodded to Bernardo to follow him into the small street behind Galindo's office for Garcia's impromptu reconstitution of the scene made him eager to confront his own memories in broad daylight.

While Bernardo automatically moved to stand watch at the corner of the building, the young don crouched near the sand that had been spread to absorb the bloodstain. Gustavo's blood. The bullet must have pierced him through and through before hitting his shoulder. A grave shadow darkened the young don's eyes as his body remembered the force of the impact. Thanks to Padre Felipe's curating ointment, he barely felt the wound, perhaps a slight stiffness, no more.

A cold shudder ran down Diego's spine as he heaved a tense sigh and looked up at the balcony's planks.

So Díaz had been in the magistrado's room, crouched in a corner. Closing his eyes, the young don forced the scene to appear in his mind. Díaz, crouched. The faint flame of a candle. Diego frowned. The small rug at the bottom of the bed was half-bent away. And a plank in the hard floor missing. Then a shot. Diego's eyes flew open. His heart rushing into his chest, he leaped to his feet, as tense as the previous evening when he had jumped out of the window to avoid being hit by the bullet. Either Díaz was a poor shooter, or he had not meant to hurt him, for at such a short distance, it was incredible that he was still alive.

A tap on his shoulder startled the young don.

Next to him, Bernardo pointed at the ground with his finger then at the balcony. Without a sound, Diego took cover just as ash from a cigar fell at his feet.

While he waited for Galindo to move back into his office, Diego's mind made links.

So it was Díaz was who had trussed the magistrado up, and also, in all probability, the one who had knocked Garcia out. But Benito had not said that he was part of their group and somehow, he trusted his head vaquero not to have lied by omission on this point. Gustavo, Benito, Roberto and Miguel. The four compañeros were certainly long time friends. A newly arrived man would not have been entrusted with such a perilous plan.

_Plan... _Diego nodded to himself as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

Gustavo had gone singly in the office, taking on the risk of being caught alone. Miguel had stayed at the bottom. Roberto, like Benito, had been standing guard elsewhere, probably one of them on the plaza, checking on Reyes and the other watching the patrol.

_Díaz..._ Could his presence be a mere coincidence? A coincidence too that Díaz, after meeting Galindo, had ridden toward the river where the vaqueros had chosen to meet? Diego shook his head, not quite believing such a combination of factors.

The planks creaked overhead. While steps faded away, Diego realized that the shadow had disappeared.

With a tense nod, he signaled to Bernardo to move back toward their horses, more determined than ever to confront the new vaquero.


	12. Chapter 12

_Zorro's trial_

_Chapter 12_

* * *

Despite the slight breeze whistling in the orange trees bordering the road, an intense heat crushed the mission's grounds when Diego and Bernardo quietly rode in this hour of siesta, welcoming the sight of the bell tower and, even more, the freshness of the church at its foot. Blessing or curse, the last thunderstorm had spared the pueblo, the edge of the massive cloud stopping right at San Gabriele's boundaries, depriving the orchard of much needed water. On the other hand, considering the damage in San Fernando, the trees may never give fruit again, though opinions differed on this matter.

While he took out a lace handkerchief to mop the sweat running down his face and neck, soaking his back, Diego's eyes squinted upon noticing a thin silhouette fifty yards ahead running toward them.

Frowning with worry, Diego hastened his pace to meet the fray, and jumped off his burning saddle.

"Ah! My son! Gracias a Dios it is you!" Padre Felipe repeated, slightly breathless.

"What is it, Padre?" Diego asked, seizing the fray by the shoulders and dragging him under the shadow of a tree while Bernardo arrived with a gourd of water.

"It is Pepito. We cannot find him."

The young don heaved a sigh of relief. He had feared a disaster of some sort, a tragedy.

"Padre, Pepito is a curious boy," he said with a reassuring smile, "He must have wandered a bit further than usual and will come back later." How many times had he scared the frays when he was about Pepito's age? Actually, too many to remember.

"Today's different." The padre paused, obviously annoyed. "Pepito went into a fight against two other boys while they were having lunch."

Diego arched a dubious eyebrow but silenced his thought, preferring not to remind the fray of his youthful peccadilloes while the latter continued:

"A quarrel about Zorro."

The mention of the fox caused the young don to tense. Feeling ill at ease to meet the padre's sharp gaze, Diego took out his watch and cast a look at it. It was ten past two. "And nobody saw him since lunch time?" he asked, worried that the boy was ashamed and did not want to face Juan, his grandfather.

The fray shook his head no. "His horse is not there anymore. I have sent all the people I could to search the grounds but with no success so far. Two of your vaqueros are exploring the northern hills. It is terribly hot today..."

"Have no worry, Padre, Pepito knows better than to ride under this scorching sun without water and supplies, and hunger will push him to come back home soon enough."

"I hope you are right, Diego."

"Padre Felipe! Padre!"

An instant later, a native came to a halt next to them.

"One of the vaqueros found the chico's trail. He went further north, toward San Fernando."

"Through the forest?" Diego asked, annoyed. He hoped not, because even if the place offered a fresh harbor in summer, the underbrush remained treacherous for a few days after a storm.

The native shrugged his shoulders before setting his eyes on the ground.

"What is it, Paolo? You can speak freely in front of our friends. Have no fear." The padre encouraged.

"The boy came to me this morning while I was cleaning the bed sheets, wondering if I knew about the muddy hoof prints on the ground behind the mission. I told him we had a late visitor from San Fernando yesterday evening, but I read in his eyes that he did not entirely believe me."

Diego heaved a deep sigh. Of course Pepito did not believe Paolo. Not only nobody had come in the pueblo today from the distant village, but yesterday evening, after leaving the mission, he had chosen to ride north to reach his lair instead of taking the more direct route el Camino Real offered. Unfortunately, Pepito was smart enough to notice that the late visitor had come to the mission from the pueblo and left toward the forest.

"Diego, I think I understand what Pepito has in mind. He wants to find Zorro," Padre Felipe whispered, turning pale.

"In the forest?! What is he thinking?" Diego asked, trying to sound astonished though in fact, he was worried.

This was indeed a more serious situation than he first thought. If Pepito had made plans, and was not just wandering without a goal, he might venture to places where reason would have told him not to go, hoping to discover the fox's lair. Along with water, he might have taken food with him too. He knew how strong a boy's determination could be.

"A chance he looks like his father because I swear this boy is as intrepid as you were as a child. There must be something in the water of your well to explain such recklessness."

The young don's eyes went wide at the padre's outrageous remark and he was happy to see that the fray's eyes were on the sky. Diego raised his and squinted. Though the luminosity was still intense, a thin layer of clouds veiled the sun. A late afternoon thunderstorm was possible. The weather changed so quickly...

"Do not worry, Padre, I will find him," he said, pivoting toward his horse when a hand tightened on his shoulder, the valid one.

"Sometimes it takes a child to find another," Padre Felipe said, enigmatic, as he squeezed his uninjured shoulder, adding: "May Dios protect you and Pepito."

Troubled, Diego nodded and promptly mounted back on his palomino.

"Paolo?" he asked, "Who found the boy's trail?"

"Your new vaquero, Don Diego, I do not recall his name."

"Díaz. Rodrigo Díaz," the young don replied, tense, before riding away at a light gallop, Bernardo following him. Maybe he would be able to confront the vaquero finally. No, this was not the time. He had to focus on Pepito only. His instinct told him that the boy had headed straight to the network of grottos in the forest. Difficult to access, an abundance of fresh water, and relatively close distance to the pueblo; all these characteristics would have made it a perfect site for an outlaw's lair.

While he rode away at a light gallop toward a place of his childhood, Bernardo next to him, Diego could not help but think that this was a taste of his own medicine.

How many times had he forced his mother to send Juan and other vaqueros out to fetch him, despite his father's opinion to let their son develop a sense of autonomy and responsibility? He remembered all his talks with him in the aftermath of an escapade, sometimes about honor, often upon not trespassing on nature's limits, even more often on what he had discovered while exploring, making so many cheerful memories, hours binding their complicity. He missed those times dearly.

Diego shook his head and focused back on reading the tracks. Two sets. One deep and the other more superficial, indicating that one of the riders was light. As he had feared, they led to the forest.

Eyes narrow, he then scanned the lifeless prairie. Two hundred yards on the northwest, the flat terrain progressively dived into a wooded hollow, at the bottom of which el Camino Real appeared. The dusty road snaked along the forest for a few miles before cutting through it. From overheard travelers' talks in the tavern, Diego knew that the wooden bridge crossing the river, the same that ran between Don Nacho's and his father's lands, had been carried away with a good chunk of the road by the swelling of the waters, forcing traffic to make a large detour.

Diego straightened on his saddle and stared at the top of the trees.

Somewhere in the middle of the green mass, a ten-year-old boy was searching for him. A boy who had fought for his honor.

All a sudden, the young don felt his blood boiling in his veins for only thinking to keep a low profile for the next few weeks. If there was a word that disgusted him more than anything, it was coward and that reaction sounded under the cover of prudence, an act of cowardice. Through clenched teeth, he swore to himself that this six-letter word would never be associated to Zorro. Ever!

Soon, their path became steep and forced them to progress slowly to avoid causing rockslides. The further they came to the edge of the forest, the further the damage of the thunderstorm became apparent. There were branches on the ground all around them, while some were stuck between trunks, making difficult to ride, forcing them to lie on their horse's neck at several places, and finally forcing them to dismount.

Behind the trees, the dull sound of cascading water growled somewhere. Diego crouched down near a two-foot wide stump to examine the hoof prints, ignoring the mosquitoes buzzing around his head. He was not very surprised to see that the riders headed straight toward the river.

"Come, Bernardo," he said, waving a hand to chase an annoying bug, "You are about to discover one of my favorite spots to play."

Minutes later, a childish joy sparkled in the young don's eyes when they arrived on the river's bank.

Aware that he had the "Garcia in front of a barrel of wine" smile, the young don jumped down the embankment to rediscover the site. Carefully, he walked on the slippery rocks to get as close as possible to the stream and cupped fresh water in his hands to refresh himself. Feeling better, he moved around to detect were Pepito had chosen to cross.

He had just detected the hoof prints when a stick falling into the water attracted his attention and muted at once his joy.

"A bit too fast for my taste," he muttered to Bernardo as the current carried the piece of wood away toward a nearby fall. Though usually not impressive in the summer, the last downpour had temporarily increased its output.

More careful, Díaz had preferred to move up further to find a safer place to reach the other side.

A knot wrenching his guts, Diego straightened up and walked down the river toward the cascade. As the terrain became more treacherous, he used low branches to secure his unstable steps and approached as close as possible from the precipice to get a full view on the large pond transforming into a boiling rapid thirty feet down.

"I do not see anything," he said loudly to Bernardo who, careful, had stayed on an upper position.

Reassured that Pepito had succeeded in crossing the river, Diego slowly moved back up, watching with a certain amusement his mute friend resuming his fight against the flock of mosquitoes buzzing around his head when a painful sting made him slap his hand on his neck just as his foot slipped. Quickly, he stretched his arm to find a grip on a rock when the branch he held with his other hand yielded in a dry crack.

At once, the earth vanished under his feet.

"Dammit!" he muttered through clenched teeth as he caught an aerial root.

Finally, thanks to Bernardo, who had rushed to offer a most helping hand, he hauled himself back on firm ground with relief.

"That is adventure, my friend," he said, half wincing of pain because of his injured shoulder, half laughing out of thrill.

Such exclamation owned him straight away an angry look from his friend.

"What? Do you not like a little action for once?" he chuckled, standing up cautiously.

The mute shook his head and pointed with his finger the young don's arms and legs.

Diego craned his neck to look at the back of his left sleeve and winced. Like his knees, it was full of mud.

"Well... You cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs," he replied, now feeling a bit sheepish as he remembered in which poor state he had brought Zorro's clothes back. "Will you come or stay here to be eaten by bugs, mi amigo?" he added, patting Bernardo on the shoulder with a renewed dynamism.

Fighting not to laugh, Bernardo shook his head and waved his arms in abandon at the same time.

They crossed the stream near the place Rodrigo Díaz had estimated it safe to attempt to reach the other bank. However, on the contrary of the vaquero, who had walked back to find the boy's tracks, Diego led Bernardo further up toward a quicker way, for he knew exactly where Pepito was.

"You can wait here if you prefer, my friend," Diego said to Bernardo at the bottom of a steep path where huge granitic blocks created a narrow passage.

The mute nodded and took his palomino's bridles.

Then, with an enthusiasm that usually belonged to the darkness, Diego began to climb up, using roots and prominent rocks to secure his steps. His wounded shoulder complained a little, but nothing would keep him from enjoying the moment and, actually, he felt younger and younger the further he came closer to his secret lair. Well, one of his secret lairs!

A couple of minutes later, a victorious smile lightened his face as he stared at the first, irregular stack of rocks and trees, like islets that created more grottos than the most adventurous kid would ever dare to dream of.

"Pepito!" he cried, aware now that he could spend the whole day without finding a trace of him there. The best way was to convince the boy to show himself. "It's Diego!"

The young don waited, leaning an attentive ear for any voice through the rustling of the leaves, repeating his call every few minutes while wandering around. And suddenly, a small silhouette appeared behind a trunk twenty feet on his right.

"That's quite a fun place to explore, don't you think, Pepito?" he asked with a warm smile as he headed toward the boy who tied his pinto horse to a branch before joining him.

"Sí, Don Diego," Pepito replied.

Upon noticing the boy stopping in his track and lowering his gaze on the ground, Diego covered the last few feet that separated them. Gently, he then grabbed Pepito's chin, forced his head up and whistled.

"Quite a black eye you've gotten here, my young friend."

The boy shook his head and stepped away, obviously not proud of himself.

Knowing the turmoil Pepito must have felt, Diego allowed him the needed space to breathe and silenced his questions, waiting patiently for the boy to speak first.

"Do you know how long it will stay, Don Diego?" Pepito asked after a long silence.

"The black eye?"

The boy nodded and, looking embarrassed, turned to climb back up the rocky islet behind him.

"I do not know because I never got one," Diego said, following Pepito's agile ascension, ants tickling his tiptoes to do the same.

"You mean because you never fought?" Pepito asked, sitting down with his legs dangling in the void.

"I mean I never got a black eye," Diego clarified, biting his cheeks not to chuckle. "May I come and join you up there?"

"Sure, Don Diego," the boy said, shifting to free some space beside him.

In a series of movements that would have been sprier if his shoulder had not annoyed him, the young don hauled himself on the rocks and sat down near Pepito.

"So, tell me. Did you find him?" he asked, slightly breathless.

"Who, Don Diego?"

"Zorro, of course. I admit this is indeed a clever place to hide."

The boy shook his head. "I was so sure that I would find him here or discover at least a trace of a camp... but there's nothing."

"Do not be so disappointed, Pepito. It is expected that he changes places from time to time in order not to get caught."

"Maybe," the boy repeated. "Don Diego, have you ever fought against someone?"

The young don nodded. "Once. When I was about your age."

"May I ask you why?"

"Well..." Diego frowned, pondering on what to tell to Pepito. "Another boy had said something mean about one of my friends."

"And did you beat him?"

"Does it have an importance, who wins, who fails?" Diego asked, reading a mix of fear and thrill in the boy's dark eyes.

The boy looked down again. "I suppose not."

"Right you are. A civilized young man should not use his fists to settle a difference," Diego replied, using his father's reproachful tone and gaze to sound serious.

As a result, Pepito blushed and lowered his eyes, causing Diego to feel bad and pushed him to add:

"Though, I admit, I might have taken a certain satisfaction not to be the most bruised."

A mischievous life immediately sparkled in the boy's eyes, causing Diego to chuckle. Without any doubt, his father's shoes felt too big for him.

"I am going to be reprimanded."

Diego winced and nodded. "That will avoid you a lot of trouble in the future, believe me," he said before clearing his voice and looking away. He could not believe he was lecturing the boy... How much was the bounty on his head by the way? In a night, it had jumped from one thousand and five hundred pesos to five thousand! He was neck deep into trouble... But where the magistrado was going to take the outrageous money?

"But there are times when one has no choice but to fight. Look at Zorro! Where would we be if he had not chosen to stand up against the commandante?" Pepito said, sounding serious and engaged as he continued, "I bet that man would have sold us to mines to make money so our parents could pay all the taxes. Some of my friends' parents still have enough money for food thanks to him, and Don Nacho would be dead if the fox had not freed him from jail, certainly that counts!"

"I would like to say yes, Pepito," Diego said with a faint smile tainted by bitterness, "But Zorro is an outlaw. He will have to face justice one day."

"He is a hero!" the boy cried, leaping to his feet, his will to fight whoever would speak ill of the fox burning in his dark eyes.

"Calm down, Pepito," the young don said, catching the boy's arm so he would not fall down the ground. With an amused smile, he forced the young vaquero to sit down.

"It is unfair..."

"I know. But it is as it is," Diego sighed, all too sharing the boy's mood. "Come now. A lot of people are worried about you, and the longer we make them worry, the longer you will hear from this escapade."

"But I need to find Zorro. I need to warn him not to trust anybody from now on," Pepito said, determined.

Diego chuckled. "It is nice of you, Pepito, but I do not think the fox needs any warning. Sergeant Garcia always says that he has ears everywhere and always knows what is going on in the pueblo. I bet he already knows."

"Are you certain?" Pepito asked when the rustling of foliage somewhere behind them attracted Diego's attention.

"Sí, Pepito, do not worry for Zorro," he said, craning his neck to look above his shoulder. "Hey, Rodrigo! We are here!" he cried, waving a hand to signal their position.

While the vaquero modified his course to head toward them, dragging his horse behind him, a dull tremor shook the skies and the ground.

"Earthquake?" Pepito asked, raising scared eyes on his surroundings.

Diego waited a few seconds before shaking his head. "No, thunderstorm. We better get out of here before it bursts," he said as they met with Díaz. Quick, the young don decided his next steps.

"Hola, Rodrigo," the boy said with an embarrassed smile.

"Hola, young fellow. Quite a course you led me – us – on!"

"I am sorry..."

"You are safe, that is all that matters," Díaz said with a reassuring smile. "Patrón."

"Rodrigo, I am glad you found us," Diego said, though it was the fox's eyes who gleamed. "Pepito, you see that narrow path between the two rocks there?" As he spoke, the young don pointed toward the place he had come from.

"Sí."

"Go there and climb down. You will find Bernardo at the bottom of the escarpment."

"But my horse will never pass through there..."

"It is the quickest way out of here. By the time you reach the river from a rideable path, the rain might have made it impassable. I will take your pinto and with Rodrigo, we will ride back to the hacienda by another, longer but safer path."

"All right..." the boy nodded, though a bit reluctantly.

Diego watched Pepito climbing down with confidence for a moment before turning toward Díaz. "Come Rodrigo, we are in for a very wet ride."


	13. Chapter 13

_AN: A huge thank you for your reviews and continuous support :-) Just to let you know that I greatly appreciate all the time you take to read and give feedback. _

* * *

_Zorro's trial _

_Chapter 13_

* * *

Less than ten minutes later, ominous clouds unleashed a torrential rain on the forest while a slashing wind beat the trees. Before they arrived at the edge of a rocky hill where they would be exposed to lightning, Diego forked north and led them on a slowly climbing path toward a nearby cave, a secondary exit to a disused mine gallery.

"We will wait out the storm there," he said to Díaz, pointing with his finger to a fifty-foot high clump of rocks stacked on top of each other with trees growing around and on top of it.

"Where?" Díaz asked, craning his neck in the direction the young don showed.

"On the left of the moss covered rock," Diego repeated, aware that the entrance was a bit difficult to see.

Shortly after, the young don dragged Pepito's pinto horse inside the mine, relieved to escape nature's fury.

"They searched for gold here twenty years ago but never found a nugget," he said keeping his voice low not to trigger an echo. The wooden poles holding the roof did not seem in that good a shape and earth fell on the ground each time thunder rolled.

"You know the region quite well, Don Diego."

The young don nodded, not feeling like replying anything. Already Díaz had seen him behave differently from his usual role, surprisingly too confident and now, too resourceful.

"Where are you from, Rodrigo?" he asked as he sat down on the ground, his back leaning on a wall.

The vaquero imitated him and sat in front of him.

"Sevilla."

Diego whistled. "That is a long shot from California."

"Actually, my parents arrived in Mexico when I was four. I don't remember anything about my place of birth," Rodrigo said with a smirk. "I grew up in Mexico City."

"Ah! Much closer. I went to Spain for my studies a few years ago, it is quite a dangerous trip to take on with a young kid."

"My father did not have much choice. He was military."

"Was?"

"Oh, he still is, though many have tried to make him stand down. He says that he will when his arm fails him. As nobody dares to challenge him, he is still in position. Though he almost had me once by forcing a blade in my hand."

Diego chuckled. "I might be ill placed to ask such a question, but why did you not follow on your father's path? Why become a vaquero?"

"Because I do not envy his position at all. Working at a desk all day, going to private rooms for receptions where one's talent with one's tongue is more important than one's agility with a sword." Díaz bit his lips and shook his head. "No, I am not the man my father is. I need great outdoor spaces and action. To stay sitting all day is an ordeal, no offense intended."

"None taken. Hence the reason why you became a vaquero. To enjoy a life outside," Diego replied, intrigued. To become enmeshed in politics, a military man had to be of high rank in the hierarchy. Who was Díaz's father exactly?

"Well... Actually, this is a new career orientation for me."

Diego frowned. Lightning had momentarily dispelled the darkness of the cave, and, contrary to what his tone might have indicated, there was no mischief on Díaz's face. His jaw was so tense that had it not been for the racket of the rain, Diego would have heard the vaquero's teeth grinding.

Díaz heaved a deep sigh and, without a word, stood up and headed toward his horse. Diego watched him open his saddlebag and retrieve something in it before walking back to him, eyes staring at the letter in his hands.

"I heard Magdalena Montez came here two months ago."

It was Diego's turn to turn pale. In his chest, his heart began to pound faster. "She came here indeed."

"I... She gave me this for you."

His brow furrowed, Diego took the letter and headed toward the entrance to distinguish the handwriting. The light was barely enough, but he did not need more to feel his throat drying.

_To Diego de la V. _

Magdalena had not completed his name nor had she bothered to put any address, as if she had not meant to send it. Intrigued, the young don broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter.

His eyes widened as he read the few perfectly curved words. Barely three sentences. She apologized for her brutal disappearance, confessing that a terrible secret had left her no choice to do so, because she did not wish to tarnish his name, nor cause him harm and prejudice.

Diego bit his lips, feeling his heart tightening upon reading the last sentence. A promise to cherish their promenade along the lake as her sweetest memory of her short stay in Los Angeles; her wish there had been so much more for them to share, and her burning regret that her mistakes had kept them from happening.

Moved by Magdalena's words, Diego folded the letter and raised his eyes toward Díaz, but the latter, leaning a hand on a pole, was staring at the ground, lost in thoughts. Anxiety rising, the young don then read the letter a second time. With the effect of surprise wearing off, her words seemed to penetrate his heart further, like the blade of a sharp dagger.

His mind played again the melody she was playing at the piano the moment he had first seen her, as he stepped into the sala with the intent to please his father, and nothing more. He did not wish to marry and thought to play along a little before finding an excuse. How he wished life had never given him one he could not sweep away.

"The storm is weakening," Díaz suddenly said, somehow proving that he had kept a watching eye on their surroundings.

"You said she gave this to you?" Diego asked, ignoring the affirmation as he raised a completely different look on the new vaquero. Who was this man?

Díaz nodded, sorrow distorting his face. A sorrow so obvious that it made the young don immediately fear that Magdalena had met a great misfortune on her path.

"What happened, Rodrigo?"

"At her return to Mexico, she was arrested with her father for treason," Díaz said, his face even whiter than a few seconds ago.

Diego's eyes widened out of dread. He had saved her from the magistrado's man. Was it to only bring her forward another mortal peril?

"Treason?... Why?"

Díaz's eyes hardened but his lips did not open.

"Was she?..." Diego asked, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

"Executed?"

Diego nodded, not able to utter another word.

Díaz slowly shook his head. "No."

The young don closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"The next morning of her arrest, she and her father were found dead in their cell."

"What?"

"I found this near their bodies," Rodrigo said, taking out a feather from his sleeve.

A white eagle feather.

Diego clenched his jaw, feeling a terrible ire rising from deep within him. Noticing that Rodrigo's eyes were sharply focused on him, he took a deep breath to control his nerves as he recognized the cut on one side. The fatal cut...

"What does that mean?" he whispered, forcing his lips to lie.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Díaz said through clenched teeth.

The young don heaved a sigh. Obviously, Díaz would not reveal what he knew.

"You said you found them dead?" he asked, trying to make him talk.

Diego saw Díaz's jaw tensing as he nodded. Then, silent, he watched him pivot and head toward the entrance of the cave. Angered, the young don followed him, wanting more answers, more explanations. As the vaquero stepped under the rain, he caught his arm to force him back in.

"Who are you? What are you doing here in Los Angeles?"

Díaz freed his arm at once, and looking above his shoulder, said:

"I am here to kill whoever is responsible for her death."

Hatred distorted his voice. Diego shuddered.

"You loved her?"

Díaz faced him, hands clenched into fists. "It was not your case, obviously."

Diego's jaw tightened under the reproach. That was unfair!

"Why then did you let her go to California?"

"Because..." There was a tense silence. "I gave her my heart and I would have laid down my life without hesitation for hers... But what she asked was..." Díaz took a deep breath and straightened himself. "My blood is Spanish, my honor and my arm belong to the King. As she could not have them, we broke our engagement. As a result, she left Mexico for California."

Diego swallowed a painful lump, remembering that he had seen a certain sadness in Magdalena's dark eyes as they walked around the lake. "So you are military," he finally said, focusing back his attention on Díaz.

"I was. I resigned in the hour after finding her on that cold ground."

"You said she was arrested... how?"

"She came to me the morning of her return in the city," Díaz's voice strangled as dreadful memories obviously resurfaced. In a whisper, he added: "She forced me to place her under arrest so she could reveal what she knew at a trial..."

"Only she never got the chance..." Diego finished for him.

While Díaz, shoulders sunk, stepped out under the rain, Diego, shocked, walked inside the gallery and kicked the first rock on his path out of rage and despair. He was responsible for her death! If only he had not cut the feather just to see what would happened! Just to see?!

By saving her that evening, he had only delayed the inevitable. Magdalena and her father were doomed the moment he carved the order.

Diego crashed his fist on the wooden pole nearby, causing dust to fall on his head. Impervious to whatever happened around him, he slowly crouched on the ground. How long he stayed prostrate, his eyes seeing nothing but a biting sorrow, he had no idea.

"The storm has moved away, let's go," Díaz suddenly said, shaking his shoulder.

Nodding, the young don got up without a word and walked out in the sparse underbrush. The sun rays shone, penetrating through the foliage, making shimmer drops of rain falling down. Here and there, small streams of water cascaded down the heavy terrain. However, neither man had the heart to marvel in front of the quiet spectacle of nature awaking from the storm.

It was almost dusk when Diego finally arrived at the hacienda, Díaz having forked a few miles before to head toward the vaqueros' outbuildings.

"Ah! Diego!" Don Alejandro exclaimed as the young don entered with relief in the patio. "I was worried for you. Bernardo and Pepito came back two hours ago."

The young don winced as his father squeezed his wounded shoulder.

"Are you hurt?"

"It's nothing, Father. I must have pulled a muscle when I slipped earlier. The ground was but mud," Diego said, stretching his arms and back with a wince of pain.

"That I can see," his father chuckled.

Diego froze and frowned upon seeing the old don smiling at him. Had he missed something there? "What?" he asked, perplexed.

"Nothing, my son. It is just that it seems so long ago since I've seen you coming back covered by bruises and mud!"

_For me, not so long.._. Diego thought, bitter.

"Bernardo already prepared you a bath. Clean up and join me for dinner, would you?"

Diego forced a faint smile on his face as he said, "With great pleasure, Father."

A few minutes later, the young don stepped over the high edge of the cast iron bath, sat down in the warm water, leant on the back, and closing his eyes, relaxed. Until a full bucket of water was poured on his head. At once, Diego straightened and passed a hand on his face to dry it while Bernardo began to rub him with vigor.

"Bernardo?" he said, voice weak and strangling in his throat, causing his friend to freeze, "Magdalena is dead."

His mute friend stopped at once maltreating him. As his eyes started to burn, Bernardo patted him on the shoulder to convey his sympathy and stepped away, leaving him alone to cope.

* * *

"Are you feeling better, my son?" Don Alejandro asked as he came in the sala an hour later.

"At least I feel fresher," Diego replied, sitting down at the table in front of a plate of cocido with chickpeas and lamb that despite the heat, awaken his appetite.

"I thought you would be hungry tonight and asked Maria for something more nourishing."

"Gracias," the young don replied while Bernardo served them red wine from their lands.

With a nod, they thanked him and began eating. Not feeling in a mood to talk, the young don emptied half his plate before the worried glances from his father pushed him to open a conversation. "The road between the pueblo and San Fernando has been cut off again at many places. Perhaps it would be wiser to delay your trip to Monterey, Father."

"Hmm, I would like to but this business matter is too important for California and Spain. You see, my son, in these troubled times, we need to reassert ourselves, strengthen our links to our mother country and show our citizens that Spain has not forgotten us. Otherwise, I fear that what is happening in Mexico would sooner or later happen here also."

"I thought the situation was under control there?"

The old don shook his head. "When he came two months ago, Don Estevan insisted upon finding a way to re-establish our commercial routes with Spain."

"Really? The viceroy did not seem so worried by the situation when I talked to him."

"Oh, he was. Why else would have he rode out of Mexico City for this perilous journey in Alta California? My son, there is no more insidious enemy than the one within the place..."

Diego frowned.

"You are still young, Diego, you lack this distance age and experience confers."

"Father..." Diego sighed, reproachful.

"Like it or not, it is true. Otherwise, what would be the purpose of growing grey hair?"

"But yours are white, so that does not count," Diego replied, letting his natural joking self speak his tongue, or perhaps he was just too tired to keep it in check.

It was Don Alejandro's turn to send a reproachful glance to his son, causing the latter to chuckle of his mischief.

"Sometimes I swear you and your uncle are two peas in a pod..." he grumbled, smirking and shaking his head in disapprobation in the same time, before adding, more serious, "Diego, by his actions, Monastario pushed the peones and rancheros to revolt against the army and the army here is the only symbol of the crown. Thanks to Zorro, his reign was short, but Don Estevan, like many of us with grey or white hair, fear the harm is already done. We might have very troubled times ahead of us."

The young don nodded gravely, pondering his father's words. Had Monastario indeed planted the seed of revolution?

"A new commandante should soon arrive, directly from Mexico. Don Estevan promised us the finest officer he could get a hand on," Don Alejandro said.

The Eagle's feather appeared in the young don's mind, flying above the fires of a discontented mob crying for justice and freedom. Magdalena's face was among them. Was she so different than him? Taking position against the violence the Spanish military forces often inflected to the natives? Was not Zorro doing the same? But treason... his heart, like Díaz's, drew a line there. His blood was Spanish and his sword belonged to the king, true? Had the fox changed this? He could not bear the thought...

"Diego?"

The young don raised his head. "Sorry, Father. What did you say?"

"That a new commandante should arrive soon. What is it with you, my son? For a moment, you seemed almost in pain."

"I... I guess I am just more tired than I thought. With your permission, I will retire to rest."

"Of course, this day has been rich in emotions. I am relieved you found Pepito safe and sound."

"I am relieved too," Diego said, smiling faintly as he pushed the chair away and stood up. "Buenas noches, Father."

"Buenas noches, my son."

_Rich in emotions!_ Diego thought as he stepped out of the sala and headed toward the stairs. On that, the old don was right. However, what his father ignored was that his day was far from finished yet. There were answers he sought from Díaz. Answers only Zorro would get, at the tip of his sword if necessary.


End file.
